Curse of the Black Pearl
by Arquenniel
Summary: COMPLETE AT LAST! If you have a minute, please find your favorite part and tell me if I wrote it right! :D
1. prologue

**Author's note:** This is an attempt at novelizing CotBP and and therefore may not interest you at all! But if you wouldn't mind finding your favorite part of the movie and telling me if I wrote it right, I'd really appreciate it!

I'm simply hoping for perspectives on the movie other than mine. This is a just a framework to be improved by anyone who thinks a hard core novelization of the movie would be cool. I'm VERY open to input and would love to see this story become the work of multiple people. Way too optimistic? Crazy? TOTALLY! But crazy is fun!! And a novelization created by multiple people will rival anything a professional writer could come up with!

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or things from the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

* * *

_April 16, 1748_

_15 miles off the southern coast of Jamaica_

This was a battle Captain Medrod could not win.

He'd overcome a mutiny, fought off two pirate ships, and some of the storms he had weathered were worse than any manmade assault. But he could not overcome a legend.

With the arrival of the fabled _Black Pearl_, wind frothed up from nowhere. The fog that had been so commonplace became suffocating. The water itself seemed to attack Medrod's paunchy _Seeker_, keeping the merchant ship reeling and staggering in a creamy skirt of foam. Her unprepared crew was equally disoriented and fell easy prey to the _Pearl_'s monsters, barely human creatures that swung out of the bruised mist, howling their bloodlust.

Medrod himself had engaged in furious combat with a lean weasel of a pirate, a creature with burning eyes and inhuman reflexes. Medrod's loyal first mate, Dobbs, had shot the thing twice before being cut down. Medrod had seen the bullets drive into the pirate's side and when the monster barely staggered, shock had stripped Medrod of hope and sword. He'd been stabbed twice in the abdomen. Ice snakes slithering into his middle, he now lay on his own quarterdeck, the agonized twisting and vibrating of his beloved _Seeker_ spreading through his frame.

Medrod still didn't believe what had happened, but he didn't care. As lovingly as a mother, Death was wrapping him in silent, cold cotton, soothing, hypnotizing, dominating. In an odd way, he was glad he and _Seeker_ would die together.

He took one last look at the _Seeker_'s remaining mast, her shred of sail, then closed his eyes.

He smelled violets, his mother's scent. It was his wife Janie's scent too…it was what had entranced him the first time he saw her...his baby daughter's grip on his awed finger, a soft band of incredible strength. The laughter of his best school friend–what was his name? But the river was rushing fast and he careened with it, helpless as any leaf. Janie's fingers in his hair; a faceless man in blue handing him a sword; the black procession following a father's casket; a yellow weevil wriggling out of a porous biscuit; a sailor's tan face grotesque with rebellion–

"Sir! Sir!"

Faintly past the ringing in his ears, he heard a high voice. Ah yes, the cabin boy. He was slight and poorly dressed, but he could read, and when his spoke, his London accent was not that of a beggar's…not that he often displayed it; he was a vessel of grief and desperation firmly stoppered with muteness.

"Sir, what do I do?" the voice was perhaps ten feet away.

Medrod dragged his eyes open and was surprised to see the boy's blurry face only inches from his own. Black smears were the boy's eyes. Medrod remembered their color, Mexican chocolate and fine brandy...his Janie would just melt.

The boy's sobbed breaths brushed Medrod's cheeks. "What do I do?"

Medrod's tongue was huge and heavy. "Jump."

"Sir?"

He knew he would never form another word; couldn't the boy just let him die? His eyelids fell.

"Sir? Sir! Sir!"

"Here's a treat!" this was an ugly voice. "A little worm wot squeaks! Come'ere worm, I'll make you–"

A foot slammed into Medrod's side and the ugly voice cursed as it fell over Medrod's chest. The impact sent such a terrific bolt pain down Medrod's body, he literally felt the living world snap away from him.

"The little rat! He went over the side!"

An oily voice. "Leave 'im t'drown, boys; there be no medallion here. Let's light this lady up."

A gleeful howl. "Aye, aye, Captain!"

The voices were far away now. As Captain Medrod turned his back on them, he gave one last order to his cabin boy.

_Live, Turner._

_Live._


	2. Phoenix

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks so much to those who reviewed!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean.

* * *

April 15, 1756 

Port Royal, Jamaica

_How she shines._

A captain in His Majesty's Royal Navy surprised himself with this thought as he watched Miss Elizabeth Swann enter the ballroom on her father's arm. All the preening peacocks of Port Royal, he mused, seemed as sparrows in her presence. She was a phoenix, all stunning beauty laced with brilliant fire, and she burned her peers to ashes as she passed them by.

Goodness, wouldn't that make a lovely sonnet? And he'd thought of it himself; he, Captain James Norrington, who was more at home on those un-poetic tubs called warships than in the delicate arenas called drawing rooms.

Of course, if there existed a male comfortable in a drawing room, he had to be a confident man indeed. James smiled to himself, took a sip of an excellent white wine, and surveyed the scene before him.

Multiple shades of gold and blue lent the Darren ballroom a crisp elegance that was softened by the creamy warmth of a hundred candles. The sky-blue tiled ceiling went up two stories and the three massive chandeliers hanging from it were too bright to look at. One long wall was made of glass doors that opened into the softly falling Jamaican night, inviting guests onto a candlelit terrace with a commanding view of the ocean. The opposite wall mirrored its mate, but its doors opened into an extensive dining room with heavily laden tables a mile long.

The room was packed with Port Royal's elite, which meant mostly high-ranking military officers and their families. There were so many of them, the glowing wood floor was completely stifled. Dressed in their best silks and coats, wearing their grandest jewelry and medals, the guests meshed with the ballroom to create a tableau worthy of a long, long stare.

Governor Swann and his daughter were king and princess this night; when they moved, a path was quickly opened, but when they stood still, they were tightly surrounded. At the moment, they were talking to Admiral Kendricks. Miss Swann's smile blazed. She was not taking the men's attention seriously at all–her gloved arm snug in her father's, she clearly felt safe.

A motherless governor's daughter who had been denied nothing, she was spirited, as clearly evidenced by the slightly mulish set of her small chin and the way her charming smile could shift into a sort of challenging smirk. He was not a man to take mockery from anyone, but oh, yes, he believed he could reasonably tolerate a smirk from those pink lips…

"Poach me and put me on the table, if it isn't Captain Norrington!"

Norrington turned, and candlelight made the gold trimmings of his dress uniform gleam like strands of sunlight. "Captain Eaton!" He warmly clasped hands with a paunchy, red-cheeked character, who laughed boisterously, small gray eyes twinkling. The man who had climbed the Navy ranks at Norrington's side had clearly visited the beverage table a few times already, though the ball was barely started. Norrington did not care.

"I hear you've got command of the _Interceptor_ now," Eaton said, "on top of your command of the _Dauntless_, you crafty dog! Makes you a commodore, yes?"

"Very, very soon," Norrington said, chest expanding slightly.

"How soon? I'll come to the ceremony and trip you on your way up to the aisle."

"I'll be sure to bring my pistol, then," Norrington said, raising an eyebrow. "The ceremony's tomorrow."

"That's my friend James for you," Eaton guffawed, "wasting no time in securing the prize." He took a generous gulp from his wineglass. Norrington's eyes strayed to Miss Swann, Eaton's words ringing in his mind.

"I think I can make it tomorrow," Eaton stated, and Norrington quickly turned back, somewhat disoriented. Eaton helped himself to his wine again. "I'll bring my best cane."

"Do keep it to yourself."

"We'll simply have to see how I feel." Eaton raised his eyebrows, and then he gasped. "I've gotten me a new scar, James, in the service of my magnificent mother country!"

"Really?" Norrington grinned. "Can you show it and be decent at the same time?"

"I will show it, decent or not. Here, be a good chap and hold this."

Norrington patiently took his friend's glass, then watched Eaton roll back the crisp ruffles of his right sleeve.

"Oh, that's quite nice," Norrington said, leaning forward to see the six-inch rope of pink chaos that snaked up the inside of his friend's forearm. "Who?"

"Captain with a small grapple." Eaton nodded at Norrington's grimace. "A captain," he rocked back on his heels, "of a small pirate ship we captured oh, four weeks ago. Every man went to the gallows in Kingston some days ago."

Norrington smirked as he handed Eaton back his wineglass. "Why anyone would wish to engage in piracy is beyond me."

"Especially with now that you've got yourself both the _Dauntless_ and the _Interceptor_," Eaton said. "With the dreaded _Commodore_ Norrington stalking the waters, no one in the Caribbean will dare to twitch."

Norrington smiled tolerantly. "Oh, I'm sure they will, my friend. I'd hate for them not to."

"Right," Eaton toasted him, comical with his sleeve still around his elbow; "otherwise there'd be no opportunities for medals and promotions. Tragic."

"Indeed." Norrington took another sip of his wine. Before the sip could reach his stomach, though, the first dance was announced.

"I suppose you won't be joining me on the sidelines," Eaton sighed.

"Not at all, I'm afraid. Here, be a good chap and hold this." Norrington handed his wine to Eaton and scanned the crowd, trying to ignore the increased tingling in his middle. He brushed his white wig once, then vowed not to make such a self-conscious motion again.

"Fine," Eaton said. "I'll laugh at you from my comfortable seat."

"If you dare." Norrington was already moving away. The gentle music from a small trio in a corner pressed around him with the heat, like being under water. Jewels and pearls shone against skin like sun on the sea; medals clinked against royal blue uniforms stars in the night sky. And lace, there was always lace, froth on human waves. He managed to nod politely to the hopeful young women who reluctantly let him pass, but he never truly saw a single one of them. No man would give attention to needy sparrows when there was a brown-eyed phoenix flying gloriously free and without a care for the him, the hunter, who followed in the shadows created by her blazing fire.

Reaching her side was not easy. Many captains, lieutenants, and even an admiral or two were vying for her attention, not to mention some of her female friends. The key to James' success, he knew, would be her grandly dressed father. All he needed to do was catch his eye.

But did he want to?

On any other night he wouldn't have minded, but after their conversation this afternoon, he most certainly did mind.

James prided himself in being every way proper and efficient. Therefore that afternoon, he had asked for Governor Swann's permission to court and wed his daughter. It had been harder than staring down the gullet of a cannon about to fire, but only for a second. Governor Swann's delight had been a great comfort.

But then he ruined it.

No, he would not talk to Lizzy about it. Because this was a right James wanted, he had to be the one to ask her for it. James had wondered angrily if Swann just wanted to see him struggle. It was Swann's right, though. And all James had to do was pick the right strategy. So James had asked Miss Swann for the first two dances before taking his leave. He'd never asked this before and her startled, confused assent did nothing for his confidence. Now he wished he had just thrown himself at her feet and asked the blasted question now eating away his insides–would she marry him?

He could ask her here…but no. When he asked this most sacred of questions, he wanted to be far from Port Royal's socialites. They were good for nothing but spreading gossip and their self-satisfied postures, their sharp eyes, made him shudder.

The tall Governor's hazel eyes met his own. The abrupt contact was so like being slapped, James almost flinched. His heart sped. Then he had a peacock feather in his face. He gazed irritably at the shining blond head to which the feather was attached, and then the slender owner turned. He did not recognize her, but by the way her eyes widened, she recognized him. "Captain Norrington–"

"Excuse me," he interrupted, and with a brief bow maneuvered around her.

And stopped.

Her gown was the palest pink, the skirts extending gracefully from her small waist to trail behind her. Her honey-streaked chestnut hair was in curls high on her head, with a single curl lying coyly over one shoulder. Her stomacher was embroidered with roses, her lace sleeves were lined with roses, and tiny roses dotted her hair. Next to her father, who was impeccably dressed in gray, she glowed.

James bowed slowly. "Governor Swann, Miss Swann."

The Governor smiled and nodded. "Captain."

Miss Swann also nodded and smiled, albeit warily.

The music was calling and couples were streaming past. James wondered if he should make more small talk, but feared their arrival on the dance floor would be late. So he extended his hand to Miss Swann. Her dark eyes flicked to it.

"If I may have the honor?" he asked.

"You may, sir." With a smile, she extracted her arm from her father's and placed her hand in his. There was a rose embroidered on the back of her glove. James let his thumb close over that rose, and then drew her forward. She let him.

She walked at his side to the dance floor. He could hardly breathe, though he had led his share of ladies to dance floors before, Miss Swann included. She had always been a blithe dancing companion, but now she was silent. Did she sense something was afoot?

They took their places in the set, facing each other. None of their observers cared; James had danced first dances with Miss Swann before. It was when they would stand together for the second dance that people would stare and whisper behind their hands. Several men's faces already bore hostile expressions. James decided he liked it.

At the first strains of an allemande, James bowed and Miss Swann curtsied. So began the dance, the couples taking hands and extending them forward, turning as one toward the front of the room. Three steps forward, a delicate pause–

"How long will you be in port, Captain?"

"Two months."

"That is good news." She inclined her head, as gracefully as a…swan. Swann. James repressed the urge to roll his eyes.

And three steps back.

Silence.

The afternoon's dratted conversation had turned the world upside down.

* * *

"Please, allow me." 

Elizabeth Swann watched the man insert himself between her and a dark-skinned servant. "Oh–thank you, Captain."

"My pleasure," he murmured. Carefully gathering up her skirts, she leaned on his strong hand and stepped up into the carriage.

He released her fingers slowly as she settled into the soft squabs. Suppressing a sigh of relief, she smiled and shoved her exhaustion down one last time. It was two in the morning but she was determined to take the last few agonizing steps to her beloved bed with gracious dignity.

The lantern light turned Captain Norrington's white wig orange and made his green eyes gleam like a cat's, while giving his handsome, chiseled features a smoothness to match the mild Caribbean air. He moved to leave, but hesitated, half-smiling at her. She waited, feeling awkwardness coming down like the sneakiest rain.

"Thank you for the dances," Norrington said.

"It was my honor, Captain."

The sneaky rain of awkwardness was rapidly becoming a torrent. Elizabeth twisted her hands in her lap.

"Captain Norrington! There you are!"

Elizabeth relaxed as her father appeared at Norrington's side, beaming. "What a marvelous evening," he exclaimed.

"Oh, yes." Norrington nodded, almost seeming to frown.

"Well." Governor Swann looked in at his daughter, who gave him her pasted-on smile. "Tomorrow is a big day," he said to Norrington. "You'd best get your rest."

"Yes." Norrington looked at Elizabeth. "Yes." He gave a starched bow, and clicked away into the early morning.

Eyes on Elizabeth's, Governor Swann quirked a thick eyebrow brow at Norrington's brusque exit then rocked the carriage as he climbed into it. The door was shut, he sat down opposite her, and knocked on the roof. They rolled away from the Darren House and the familiar vibration of cobbles rose through the cushions.

"Did you have a good time, dear?"

"Yes," Elizabeth smiled, then wondered why her aching cheeks didn't shatter and fall in her lap.

The silence between father and daughter became heavy. For some reason, they both felt the need to smile briefly when their eyes met, so Elizabeth opened the curtains and focused out her window. Her father felt no such need; she knew he was watching her, and with each passing house, irritation like nettles swelled just a bit more in her chest.

The carriage suddenly slowed. Governor Swann peered out his window, then knocked on the roof. "What's going on?"

"There's a stopped carriage on the side of the road," the driver called. "I think it lost a wheel, sir."

"Oh, do stop." Swann leaned out the window as the clatter of the horses' hooves ceased. He winked at Elizabeth. "This is a good time to show what a good, caring governor I am, yes?"

One corner of her mouth lifted as she nodded.

"Stay in; you don't look well."

She rocked with the carriage when her father closed the door. She looked out the window at the silent homes lining the street. The hairpin that had been poking her was still doing so, except now it was giving her a headache. She heard her father talking kindly, but she did not care.

Then the door opened and her father smiled at her. "Move over, Lizzie, we're taking the Hughs and their niece home." He stepped back quickly. "Your manservant can ride on the back…"

A young blonde woman in a white dress climbed in and sat across from Elizabeth. She gave a weary simper. Her peacock feather was cramped against the ceiling. "Begging your pardon, Miss Swann."

"Not at all," Elizabeth managed brightly, then watched a middle-aged couple climb in. Slender Mrs. Hugh sat next to Elizabeth with portly Mr. Hugh beside her. Governor Swann took his place next to young Miss Hugh. The door was closed and everyone stiffened as if anticipating complete suffocation. Quickly, the window curtains were pulled aside and the atmosphere loosened as the carriage began to move.

"Well." Governor Swann looked about at his less-than-happy companions. "You're in good hands. That Mr. Brown and Will Turner certainly can work magic on any scrap of metal. They were so kind to come at this hour of the morning."

Elizabeth blinked rapidly and focused out her window. A handsomely appointed carriage leaned into the street. Its twisted front wheel rested in the hands of a tall, dark-haired youth dressed in a simple shirt and breeches. Standing in front of him was a stocky man who shouted angrily. As they passed, the youth remained focused on his wheel, but his head turned ever so slightly toward the road. Elizabeth quickly sat back.

She looked up just in time to see Miss Hugh sit back as well. Their eyes met. Miss Hugh quirked an eyebrow and gave the tiniest appreciative nod toward the youth's receding form.

Elizabeth flushed and looked away.

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want a bit of chocolate, miss? Warm milk?" 

Elizabeth Swann shook her head tiredly. "I just need to sleep, Ann. And besides, I think I've outgrown warm milk."

"Miss!" the blond maid chucked her on the chin. "Surely that's impossible."

Elizabeth watched the older woman walk to the dressing table and blow out the candles. Now only a small oil lamp on Elizabeth's bedside table burned, hissing softly. Elizabeth faced the lamp, burrowing into her soft pillow.

"Elizabeth." Ann was a friendly specter in the gloom. "You're more than tired. With all due respect."

Elizabeth smiled. Ann had been Elizabeth's wet nurse when Elizabeth's mother had died of smallpox in England. She was the closest person Elizabeth had to a mother. "Ann, if…" Elizabeth huffed. "If someone wanted to marry me, and he asked Father, do you think Father would tell me?"

"We've talked of this before." Gentle fingers smoothed Elizabeth's hair. "I don't know any better than when you asked last. Why are you wondering again?"

Elizabeth rolled back, meeting Ann's warm blue eyes. "He's acting addled. He looks at me when he thinks I don't know it. And Norrington asked for the first two dances!"

Ann chuckled softly and sat down on the edge of the bed. "And you worry the Captain wishes to marry you? Miss, many a maid's been asked for the first two dances and nothing's come of it. Sometimes it means something, sometimes it doesn't. You'll go addled yourself if you wonder about it. And as for your father…who can say?" She leaned slightly toward Elizabeth. "And Captain Norrington would make you a wonderful husband."

Elizabeth's eyes slid back to the lamp.

Ann smoothed her hair one last time. "Sleep now. All things work out in time."

Elizabeth held onto Ann's parting smile, watching the woman fade into the darkness. Her bedroom door opened, closed. Quiet fell.

Elizabeth stared unblinking at her lamp, wishing the flame would burn away the tall, dark-haired mirage floating in its core. She knew it wouldn't.

Finally her burning eyes closed of their own accord and she faded into velvet dreams.


	3. Obscured Beginnings

Happy New Year!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean

* * *

"Yo, ho; yo, ho, a pirate's life for me…" 

Despite popular belief, sturdy Joshamee Gibbs was _not_ superstitious. He was simply more alert than the average sea-worn chap and this was why he stiffened when he heard the girl's voice, his wide face turning grim. He brushed his sideburns and squinted out at the mist.

The first explanation he rapidly invented for the chilling song was a innocent girl fleeing cruel relatives across the Caribbean had been killed when pirates attacked the vessel she rode. Now her spirit was slipping past the _Dauntless_.

"We kill and we ravage and don't give a hoot, drink up me hearties, yo, ho…"

Gibbs shivered at the cruel words and leaned heavily on the starboard rail. He swigged a mouthful of bitter rum from a small canteen, his most precious possession. When filled, of course. Aye, the fog sucking at the ship and water was the perfect place for those invisible to the naked eye to suffer. And not just little girls. There was room for a ship full of cursed men…Gibb's pushed his worn hat tighter on his balding head.

"Yo, ho; yo, ho, a pirate's life for me…"

_Pirates_. He could feel them lurking, threats prickling at his neck. He moved for'ard, heart speeding heavily. The voice was growing louder. He squinted ahead-

And saw a very live human girl standing just right of the bowsprit. He moved closer and the singing grew louder. Anger and embarrassment surged through him and he glanced around tensely, knowing he was not allowed to touch her.

"...extort, we pilfer, we filch, we sack, drink u-" she gasped when he seized her shoulder and whirled her around. "Quiet, missy," he hissed. She blinked her brown eyes when his breath reached her delicate nose. "Cursed pirates sail these waters; y'don't want to bring 'em down on us now, do ya?"

Her eyes widened and her curls quivered, but she she didn't say a word.

"Mister Gibbs. That will do."

No one Gibbs knew could make a simple '_Mis_ter' feel as deadly as the Lieutenant could, like an icy dagger being dragged up one's spine. Gibbs slowly turned. Brown-haired and proudly uniformed, the young British officer stood some yards off, looking coolly down his nose, hands folded behind his back.

"She was singin' about pirates!" Gibbs pointed at the finely dressed girl. "Bad luck t'be singin' about pirates when we're mired in this unnatural fog, mark my words."

"Consider them marked." The younger man turned his green eyes to the side. "On your way."

"Aye, Lieutenant." Gibbs trudged past the officer, who refused to look at him. "Tis bad luck to have a woman on board, too," he muttered, ignoring the scathing look the girl's lavishly-dressed father gave him, "even a mini'ture one." He leaned again on the starboard rail and took a comforting pull at his rum.

The girl fixed the Lieutenant with an even gaze, hands clasped in the folds of her creamy skirt. "I think it would be rather exciting to meet a pirate."

Gibbs scowled but the Lieutenant smiled with an adult's stiff condescension. "Think again, Miss Swann." His slightly nasal yet deep voice was like the finest cherry wood, polished by his perfect accent. "Vile and dissolute creatures the lot of them." He stepped to her side and gazed outward. "I intend to see to it," his voice hardened, "that any man who sails under a pirate flag or wears a pirate brand gets what he deserves: A short drop and a sudden stop."

He smiled sourly at her. Frowning, she looked at Mr. Gibbs, who, shamefully partial to frightening her again, grasped his necktie and gave her a grisly rendition of a hanged man's expression. Her eyes went wide and she turned her back on him.

"Lieutenant Norrington…" her father stepped between the grim pirate's bane and the naïve maid, "I appreciate your fervor, but I'm concerned about the effect this subject will have upon my daughter." He looked at Miss Swann with a tight brow framed by the chestnut curls of his wig.

Lieutenant Norrington glanced at Miss Elizabeth, taken aback. "Apologies, Governor Swann." He turned on his heel and stalked past Gibbs, who hid his smirk with a respectful nod.

"Actually," the girl said pertly, "I find it all fascinating."

"Yes," the Governor's eyes nervously took in the fog from under the rim of his feather-trimmed hat, "that's what concerns me. Elizabeth," he paused wearily, "we will soon be landing in Port Royal, and beginning our new lives. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we comport ourselves as befits our class and station?"

Father and daughter stared each other down. Gibbs watched them.

Mr. Swann had not carried the title of governor for two months yet. He was tall and pale, his narrow face made solemn with worry and grief wrinkles. He had an aristocrat's voice which, while it could carry authority, was almost feminine and laced with a perpetual sort of breathlessness. His girl needed someone with more backbone on display.

Governor Swann finally turned and walked away. Gibbs shook his head and silently wished Miss Swann some common sense.

* * *

Twelve-year old Elizabeth Swann watched her father walk off, his heels dully smacking the deck. She turned sharply and looked out to sea. 

How she despised being the youngest passenger on a warship full of people who were either grown up or trying to be. She despised the latest hair style, which involved poking pins. She despised the fact that her favorite sea tales were all locked up in a chest somewhere in the _Dauntless_'s dank hold.

She loved the fog, though, and she loved the glassy, rippling water. It seemed to hold its breath, afraid to jostle the cotton layers of cloud lying upon it.

It made her angry when her father spread his wings over her like a nervous goose. She liked pirates, yes, but that was only because she liked adventure best. The characters in pirate tales had more dash than knights and flimsy damsels. There was nothing more to it than that.

She sniffed. _Fog isn't made of smoke_...but she was sure she had just–

Her face lit up and she peered at the water ahead.

A small bit of white floated nonchalantly out of the mist, and soon disappeared near the hull. Barely breathing, wondering if she had just dreamed it, she stepped to the rail and leaned over.

It was a white parasol, open, upside-down. Sliding silently over the lazily rippling water like a lady over a ballroom floor, it looked as if it should have been carrying something in its pleading, webbed arms. Gooseflesh prickling her neck, Elizabeth searched the fog for something she didn't know. But there it was: a half-submerged shard of planking bobbing uneasily through the haze. Heart speeding, she fought to make out the limp pile that lay on the planks. She stiffened.

"Look!" she cried to the rest of the ship, pointing. "A boy, there's a boy in the water!"

Faces turned toward her, then everyone clambered to the starboard rail. The Lieutenant pulled himself up onto the railing, grasping a rope. Elizabeth clutched her hands together, wishing he would hurry up.

"Man overboard!" he finally shouted, and chaos ensued as sailors scrambled all directions. "Man the ropes, fetch a hook," he snapped, thudding down the deck. "Haul him aboard!"

Minutes later, Elizabeth approached the crowd gathered around a break in the rail, trying glimpse the limp bundle being lifted by a burly crewman. Many hands gentled the boy's descent to the smooth deck, and then Elizabeth could see only blue or white backs. Afraid to go near the jostling group of tall males, she hung back, biting her lower lip.

Then the Lieutenant announced the boy was still breathing. Everyone relaxed, and Elizabeth's poor lip was given a respite. "Where did he come from?" demanded Governor Swann.

"Mary, mother of God!"

Mr. Gibbs stood at the rail, his gaze fixed with horror. Softly spoken oaths rose up as everyone stumbled to join him. Elizabeth turned, and her blood turned to ice.

The fiery remains of a ship jutted from the water a hundred feet away and burning shards of it sullied the water as far as the eye could see. Powerful waves of heat came across the water, carrying streams of ash that gathered on skin and clothing.

"What happened here?" Governor Swann gasped.

"Explosion midships," Norrington replied. "It was most likely the powder magazine; merchant vessels run heavily armed."

A crack broke the following silence and the mainmast fell, trailing flames. Only feet away from the stunned observers, a torn Union Jack floated just beneath the water's surface, soon to sink.

"A lotta good it did them," Gibbs rasped. At his side, Norrington gave him a sharp glance. "Everyone's thinkin it," the weathered sailor protested, "I'm just sayin it." He looked out, and the flames were reflected in his eyes. "Pirates."

Governor Swann huffed at him. "There's no proof of that." He looked over the destruction, adding softly, "It was probably an accident."

He shook himself. "Lieutenant, these men were British and therefore under my protection. If there is any chance one of those poor devils is still alive, we cannot abandon them!"

"Of course not." Norrington moved away, a focused whirlwind. "Rouse the captain immediately. Heave to and take in sail, launch the boats." He pinned two seamen in a sharp gaze. "Move the boy aft; we need the deck clear."

Elizabeth found that it was better if she stood still instead of trying to get out of everyone's way. So swallowing repeatedly in an attempt to moisten her dry throat, she let everyone scramble around her and tried to get a good look at the poor boy as two sailors lifted him up. Then, there was a familiar rustle of clothing and then her father was there, down on one knee. The fear in his eyes made her heart stumble. "Elizabeth," he said, "I want you to accompany the boy. He'll be in your charge. Take care of him?"

Elizabeth made herself nod, and marched off, shaken but determined. Alone, she made her way to the quarterdeck, carefully lifting her skirts when she climbed the steep steps. At the top, she looked down.

It was like being on a small hill. Above, rigging swayed and sails rasped. Below, she could see sailors running around, her father standing at the rail, the captain in all his glory marching about and giving orders. Looking toward the tortured crackling of the burning ship, she felt as if she was looking on a dark green sky dotted with black and orange stars. Like timid explorers, longboats were working their way into the mess. She suddenly felt queasy.

"Excuse us, miss."

She moved to let two sailors hustle down the steps. They had the right plan: keep to business. She hurried over to the lump of wet clothing, and was finally able to see the person inside it.

The boy lay half-covered with a rough blanket, arms akimbo. One foot was exposed; there was a hole in his shoe. His face was turned slightly away from her, but she could see his features were well formed. Part of her warmed. Here was a boy her age who would not try to act like the midshipman he wanted to be, scorning her for being a girl in a dress.

His eyelashes were so dark…no, his skin was so waxy. His freckles, which would have been charming, looked like cinnamon tossed onto vanilla pudding. His lips were slightly blue. Nervousness rose in her when she watched his chest for a moment and did not see it rise and fall. What if he died? The thought's entrance into her young mind changed her anxiety into fear. She reached desperately, but the barely emerging young woman in her soul kept her hand from touching him. He was a boy. Where was it safe to touch a boy?

There, this had to be safe, like touching a baby - she carefully smoothed a dark hair from his forehead, supposing she could learn from the temperature of his skin whether he was dying or not. Her heart sank. His forehead was cold–

He gave an explosive gasp, but that did not scare her as much as the way his eyes flew wide, just like windows slamming open as thunder snaps. In an instant, his icy hand clutched her wrist and she was gaping into his terrified face, heart stumbling, ears ringing.

As her smothering box of adrenaline fell away, though, she could feel his fingers trembling. Then he coughed and she felt exactly as she had when she'd found a bedraggled kitten on the doorstep of her old house in London. "It's all right," she gulped, trying to sound reassuring. "My name is Elizabeth Swann."

"W-Will–Turner," he managed. Both words sounded like they hurt.

She smiled. "I'm watching over you, Will."

He fought his drooping eyelids valiantly, but then his eyes rolled back and his head thumped back down. His hand fell to his side. Elizabeth took deep breaths and rubbed her sore wrist, wishing she could have comforted him more. She looked at his chest, and sighed. He was still breathing.

She frowned and her eyes traced a gleaming chain she'd never noticed before. It circled his neck and disappeared under his ragged shirt, where there rested something like a thick coin. Curiosity swelled, but she kept her hands at her sides, afraid he'd grab her again, afraid of touching him anywhere but his face. Then she realized that whatever was under his shirt might have helpful information on it.

She carefully pulled the object free of the soaked fabric. The chain came undone easily and slid off the boy as she lifted the metal piece before her face.

It was a medallion that glowed warmly despite its the coldness against her palm. Deeply imprinted skulls surrounded by alien symbols grinned on both sides. She'd only ever seen skulls in one place: her books, and as realization crashed upon her, she stifled a gasp and gaped at the senseless boy. "You're a–_pirate_!"

"Has he said anything?"

Elizabeth whirled around and found herself scrutinized from a distance by Lieutenant Norrington and her father. She clutched the medallion behind her, in the folds of her skirt. "His name is William Turner. That's all I've found out."

"Mmm." The Lieutenant frowned. "Take him below."

Minutes later, Elizabeth stood alone at the quarterdeck rail, dwarfed by one of the many-paned rear lamps, a massive British flag billowing above her head. After glancing over her shoulder at the rest of the fog-shrouded deck, she slowly lifted the medallion.

_Cursed pirates sail these waters_.

She thought of William Turner's shocked eyes. How glazed they had been. Was he a victim or a criminal?

He couldn't be anything but a victim. Not with his face, his thin arms…

A shadow in the fog snatched her gaze. Just past the medallion, the shadow took shape as a breath of fell wind brushed fog aside. Rooted, Elizabeth frowned in confusion and fear. A great, ragged black galleon was sailing away as a monster retreats to its lair after committing some chill deed. Elizabeth's gaze followed the tattered ink sails, up; up...

Whipping back and forth from the mizzen-top in a wind that did not exist there was a black flag marred by a flickering white skull, a replica of the medallion's ghoul. Except this skull seemed to find her with some impossible gaze, and then, it grinned, revealed and unafraid and utterly _wrong_. She clutched the medallion and squeezed her eyes shut against the mocking pit-eyes and crooked teeth–

* * *

Tell me what you think! 


	4. Morning

:-D Get to know Will! I don't know if I did him right; please tell me what you think - I need ideas and opinions!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean. I don't even have any Caribbean seashells.

* * *

The single window framed a pale blue piece of sky. 

Morning's light mixed with the distant voice of Mr. Kempe, the butcher. Timely as always, he was cursing his uncooperative back door. The door's protests provided a steady bass line for Mr. Kempe's staccato expletives, while his chickens, roused in their pen, provided a tasteful treble squawking.

Morning had arrived in creaking, cussing, clucking, cerulean-toned glory.

Twenty-year-old Will Turner stared at his clear square of sky, numbly listening. He sighed and moved to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, making the frame creak and moan. An attempt to rub his eyes was quickly thwarted by gritty fingers...he'd been too tired to wash before collapsing into bed earlier that morning. He lowered his head and his hair, loosed for the night, brushed his cheekbones. He closed his eyes.

In the temporary darkness, the events of the wee morning hours returned in achingly weary wisps.

In dim lantern light, he was grappling with a carriage wheel on a quiet street. His master, Mr. James Brown, was bellowing in his ear. Then the Governor's fine horses clattered to a stop nearby. Will strained to balance the metal-rimmed wheel, wondering so earnestly if _she_ was watching him, he could barely move…

He shook the memory out of his head and rose, rolling his shoulders. He had to prepare himself for the coming day. By the way Mr. Brown had stumbled off to drink after that morning's carriage repair, it was to be anything but normal.

His bed was made in seconds. Water splashed into a small basin, and the cracked pitcher was set aside. As he had done since he could remember, Will slowly submerged his hands, hissing when the water hit a burn. He waited, staring at the ripples, then splashed his face, sighing as the stale remnants of his dream were washed away. Stretching to his full height, he relished the warm tingling of refreshed muscles that spread through him like a warm drink on a cool day. Drips of water trailed down his neck like tiny fingers. He wiped them off, then dried his hands on his front.

His loose shirtsleeves were well-filled as his biceps flexed and he was filled with satisfaction. If one has a master of the drunk, volatile sort, it is best to tower over him and have muscle where he has fat. Where Will had once cowered, he simply puffed his chest out and stretched as tall as he could. This never failed to reduce short Mr. Brown from a blisteringly inebriated passion to a bearably sullen simmer.

Will's shirt brushed his knees as crossed his room in five steps. He knelt before a chest made of hurriedly sanded oak and lifted its lid, wincing when the hinges screeched like twin cats. Inside lay his Sunday best, the Bible his mother had used to teach him his letters, and his apprenticeship papers.

He was not supposed to have his apprenticeship papers. It was traditional law for the master to keep them safe and this was essential because restless apprentices were liable to run off. An exception had to be made, though, when the master was half-drunk at the best of times and therefore liable to use the carefully drawn up papers in the latrine or as fuel for a fire. Will carefully set them aside, then picked up the Bible. Grime had been worked deep into the cracked leather cover, partially obscuring the gilt title, and the pages were gray. It landed on the floor as gently as a feather. But as soon as Will's brown fingers brushed the folded waist coat, his mouth tightened.

He hadn't had to wear his Sunday clothes for months. The Browns did not attend church any more and the future of the blacksmith's shop rested Will's shoulders. He barely had time to consider leaving the shop for church, much less to actually walk out the door. On top of everything, his best clothes was downright uncomfortable.

Still, the brown waist coat came out, shedding a dead spider. The breeches, neck cloth, and simple coat followed. He was going to _her _home today, and he couldn't force himself to wear his work clothes. A proud part of him wished she didn't have so much power over him, but she did. _I'm even going to wear a clean shirt and stockings. For the love of...oh, my hair! _Will grimaced in disgust with himself, but stood and reached for the dusty comb on his washstand anyway.

The one-story house grumbled in a wooden voice as steps came down the hall to his door. Will waited. There was a tap. "William," a woman said.

He opened the door.

Tara Brown was just as short and stocky as her husband was. Her skin was not pockmarked and swollen like his; it was instead deflated, sticking to her bones like wrinkled silk. Her black hair was tucked under her cap as neatly as possible and gray bags sagged under her green eyes, which were pale as if the color had leaked out over the years. Her nose was flat and small, her lips generous but cracked, and her chin receded into her neck.

Tara Brown's husband had once been a great swordsmith as well as blacksmith, a slender needle of a man as talented in using swords as in making them. He had worked hard to pass his knowledge on to Will, back when everyone had been younger, happier, and the spirits that were his companion had remained in the tavern down the road. But as rum had slithered into the household, the master-apprentice relationship had become a Saul-David arrangement, occasional flying weapons included. Husband-wife had become master-maid.

Tara, though, had stuck to her life, solid as the foundation of Fort Charles, and she was the true reason why the shop had survived. Will could not have handled his burdens without the way Tara's eyes crinkled at him, maternally tender.

They crinkled now, but her chapped hands were on her hips and her weary air was thicker than usual. Will knew exactly what she was going to say, but kept his lips tight together.

"Jamie didn't come in after you two ran off in the wee hours. He's in the shop now." She heaved a hand up and let it fall. It hit her stained blue skirt with a hopeless smack. "He completely forgot this morning's delivery," her voice tried to get angry, "and drank himself into a right fine stupor."

Will waited.

"He wanted badly t'make the Gov'nor's delivery, but you'll have to, William. I know you were going to finish Mr. Harrison's hinges this morning, but…I'd make the Governor's delivery meself if I could; it'd be fine to get a squint at his fancy things." She picked at her left thumbnail nervously. "Hopefully Jamie'll be awake to handle Mr. Harrison; Harrison's coming early afternoon. Coming for those hinges."

Will grasped the door frame and thought. "The Governor's delivery had to be made by eight, correct?" He shrugged when Mrs. Brown nodded. "I'll have plenty of time to finish the hinges. Even if I'm late and Mr. Harrison gets upset, well...I've never known him to be unreasonable. If I have to I'll install the hinges for free…"

He blinked.

Tara was staring over his shoulder, her gaze stretching for many blank miles. She began to turn away. "I've got some breakfast and some warm water for you."

"I'm coming…I think I'll see to the shop first," Will replied gently. But Tara Brown was already gone.

* * *

Fleeing the grinning skull painted on their insides, Elizabeth's lids snapped wide. Her heart pounded and her neck prickled, sending chills down her spine. Barely breathing, she looked over as much of her bedroom as was possible without moving, half expecting to find some monster crouched in a corner. 

There was only her familiar dressing table, privacy screen, and dresser, harmless in the dimness. Her eyes came to rest on the oil lamp that still glowed gently on her bedside table and slowly, the warmth of her comforter and silky pillow melted her fear.

And then, she was just a young woman lying in her bed. A faint light was slipping between the curtains: it was morning.

Hand. Numb. Elizabeth dragged her left hand out from under her hip and draped it down the side of her mattress. As the blood flowed scratchily back into her fingers, she pondered the oblivious flame of her lamp, again slipping away into its glow.

Will Turner was the only survivor found that foggy day. There had been three incomplete bodies collected after much searching… Elizabeth grimaced and flexed her smarting hand. There was a reason why, seven years after the event, she could still dream the experience like it had just happened. That day her romantic perception of pirates had died and her pirate book collection had only gathered dust since that terrible, surreal voyage. She was glad.

_Norrington probably will be, too_.

Remembering the ball the night before, her heart plummeted to her toes. She hadn't known, she reflected miserably, that this was possible when one was horizontal.

After some seconds, she dragged herself up and slipped out of bed. Taking her lamp, she silently crossed her bedroom to her polished dressing table. After setting the lamp down, she opened a shallow drawer and pulled up its false bottom. She paused when the medallion and its chain were revealed, dull with dust, the imprinted skull grinned with undiminished malice.

Odd, her ears were ringing. She slowly set the false bottom aside and picked up the medallion. Its engravings were lumpy against her fingertips, its weight surprising. It had left a dark imprint in the frosty drawer.

She shut the drawer and rubbed the medallion clean with her thumb. As she did so, she wondered if she could feel it quiver slightly against her fingers.

_You're a pirate!_ Her eyes looked past the medallion, and she saw him lying there again, white, vulnerable, senseless, his traumatized eyes temporarily hidden. _A pirate?_ Her heart sped with the fear she had felt then. If the medallion had been found on him he could have been hanged despite his youth. He had lived because she had not told the truth, and to keep it that way she would never know the story behind his medallion. She would have to be satisfied with its mere presence.

Swiftly, she moved to her wall mirror. Pulling the cold chain about her neck sent gooseflesh rippling down her arms, but she concentrated and fastened its clasp under her hair.

She appeared so alien with the gold resting on the satin gathers of her nightdress, eyes lost in her forehead's shadow; her dark eyebrows questioning and wary. Her freckles had left when she hadn't been watching. She sighed. She still had no idea what she was.

A resounding knock made her spin toward her mahogany door.

"Elizabeth." Her father's voice was muffled.

_He can't see the medallion!_ She sucked a frantic breath, briefly thanking heaven for the womanly image her father held of her, which kept him from simply opening the door. Lunging for the dressing gown at the end of her bed, she collided with a chair, _How did that get there?_ sending it to the floor with a resounding thud.

"Are you all right?"

Her right foot throbbing with outrage, the medallion smacking her as she straightened, Elizabeth shoved her arms into the dressing gown. Irritation flashed briefly as she felt the sleeves of her nightdress being dragged up around her upper arms and then she was pulling the dressing gown closed.

"Are you decent?"

"Yes–" Mind racing, she quickly tucked the medallion down into her nightdress. "Yes!"

The door was already opening. Her father entered, followed by the two maids Estrella and Ann.

"Ah," he said genially, stopping at the foot of Elizabeth's rumpled bed. "Still abed at this hour?"

She grinned shamelessly in reply. Leaving the smell of lavender in her wake, Estrella bustled past and opened the heavy curtains, letting in the enthusiastic Caribbean sun. Startled, Elizabeth shut her eyes for a moment, then relaxed as Estrella opened the French doors and morning air laden with hibiscus streamed into the room.

Her father gazed out over his town and harbor, eyes bright with pleasure. A hummingbird whizzed past. "It's a beautiful day."

It was. After struggling through her dreams, the safety of glowing daytime put Elizabeth in a cheerful mood. She smiled and watched Estrella arrange brushes and combs on the dressing table.

"I have a gift for you," her father's voice quickly brought her around, "once Estrella is done doing…" he flapped a good-natured hand, "whatever she does to get your hair into those sophisticated–tangles."

Elizabeth laughed and hurried to sit down, ready for her maid's capable hands.

* * *

Hair in a queue, breakfast in his belly, Will clutched the Governor's delivery under his arm and left his house. He strode into the blue shadows of the wide alley that separated the backs of large shops from the living quarters of their owners. To the right, the back door of Mr. Anders' butcher shop was gathering flies. Across the way, his chickens scuttled in their pen, pecking at corn a tall, slender girl distributed with lazy sweeps of her arm. As soon as Will stepped across the courtyard, the nervous chickens alerted her to his presence and her blond braid swished out as she turned. 

Abbey Kempe's mother had died at her birth. Younger than Will by five years, she had a fresh, rosy-cheeked face that could produce a sister's heart-warming smile, a smile that had comforted him on more than one occasion. More than twenty occasions.

She now shot one of those smiles his way. Then the soft _tickticktick_ of corn hitting stone crested as she freed more kernels from the basket she held under one arm. "Good morning, Will."

"Good morning." He returned her smile, working the latch on the back door of the blacksmith shop.

She faced him, free hand now on her hip. Her bright gray gaze traveled up and down him and despite the platonic warmth of her regard, he felt self-conscious. "My, Mr. Turner," she cooed with one raised eyebrow, "do I believe wot I see? You've combed your hair! Who's the maid what's driven you to such a point?"

Will grinned, quirking a brow. "I don't think the Governor would like you calling him a maid." He gestured with the presentation case he held. "I've got a delivery to make to the gentleman himself."

She nodded at the case. "That sword you were working on last week; the one what had you tryin' to pull your hair out every night."

Will nodded wryly. "It worked out in the end, though."

"Obviously" She dug into her basket... _t__ick-tickticktickticktick_. "Here, Mr. Turner." She tossed something invisible through the air and instinctively, he reached out. A single corn seed pecked his palm as it landed. He stared down at the wizened yellow kernel, then gave her a confused look.

"'Tis for good luck," she said, then gave a full-bodied laugh. "And comes with my blessings and the chickens'. It should help when Herself shows up."

Will pocketed the corn, eyebrows high. "Good day, Miss Anders."

She laughed again. "And good day to you, _Mr_. _Turner_. Give Miss Swann my best regards."

Grinning, Will hurried into the dim snugness of his second home, the shop. He hoped he'd gained the shadows before the heat creeping up his neck had showed.

Tiny pillars of sun lay across the long, warm room that had once been a barn. The airy walls seemed to absorb heat from the forge and then release it into the dust, which coated one like a blanket. The place smelled of straw, sweat, fire, metal, and Mellie the donkey. And rum.

Will looked toward Mellie, who, harnessed to the traces of the bellows, was eating her breakfast with one fuzzy ear twisted toward Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown was slumped over some barrels near the far wall. The forge glowed gently from its corner. The work surfaces around it were neat thanks to Will's earlier efforts.

Will looked down at the floor, knowing he should be on his way. The dirt, randomly striped with worn straw, didn't look much different from the brown of his shoes. He had tried to polish the buckles. Tried. And he hadn't even wanted to.

He set his jaw, gaze fastening on the shop's pass-through door. There was no reason for him to dither about his appearance. He could show up, reeking, at the Governor's gleaming door in his work clothes and it would change nothing. He was only the delivery boy who had walked up from the lower streets, a place the Governor would never venture without the safety of a carriage.

Being the _late_ delivery boy would improve nothing.

He tugged at his neck cloth, then hurriedly tried to straighten it. He realized he was sweating and wished he wasn't.

Two upright donkey ears twitched in his peripheral vision. He turned to see Mellie staring at him, a bit of hay dangling from her whiskered muzzle.

_What are you still standing there for?_

He threw his shoulders back and strode toward the fresh morning.

* * *


	5. The Swans

Thanks so much to those of you who are reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean

* * *

Ribbons, lace, flowers, and satin hung from Elizabeth's hands, crafted together into one of the most stunning dresses she had ever seen. "It's beautiful," she murmured breathlessly.

"Isn't it?" Governor Swann replied with boyish delight.

She glanced at the rose corset in the dress box, then her dark eyes lifted warily. "May I inquire as to the occasion?"

"Does a father need an occasion to dote upon his daughter?" He quirked a brow, then chuckled as she whirled away with a brilliant smile. "Go on," he prompted the maids, who both followed Elizabeth behind the privacy screen.

He breathed the flower-scented air deeply and clasped his hands behind his back. "Actually…" He glanced at his shoes, "I was hoping you'd wear it to the ceremony today."

Behind the screen, the maids kept their eyes down but their mouths twitched. Elizabeth's brows rose in feigned confusion. "Ceremony?" She hurled her nightgown so it lay over the top of the screen.

"Captain Norrington's promotion ceremony."

Elizabeth bit back a sharp sigh and poked her head out. "I knew it."

He fidgeted under her accusing eyes. "_Commodore_ Norrington, as he's about to become…"

But she had already disappeared behind the screen again, leaving her exasperation floating on the benign air.

* * *

The gates of the governor's mansion were shut. 

Flourishing plants poured down alongside twelve-foot towers of white stone that held up the wrought iron portals. Despite his anxiety Will felt a flash of admiration for the hinges, which looked brand new.

The sound of shoes on gravel brought his attention forward. The gatekeeper was approaching down the curving, flora-lined drive, dwarfed from behind by the three-story mansion that reared gloriously into the sunrise. "How can I help you?" the man asked, stopping two feet from the gates. "What is your business?"

Will refused to be cowed by the man's uniform, which was finer than anything he had ever owned. "My name is William Turner," he said. "I work at Mr. Brown's smithy and I am here to deliver the sword commissioned by the Governor."

"Ah yes." The man came forward, producing a key. He unlocked the gates and pulled one in. "You're expected, Mr. Turner."

Will stepped onto the serene drive and was motioned forward, so he walked on alone, glancing up every so often at the mansion's gleaming windows. They were made blank by the curtains coating their insides…except for one. The double doors of this one were flung wide, rippling curtains framed them.

With great effort, Will forced himself to not look up again. Blade-like leaves rustled gently as he climbed steps to the house's large door. He breathed deeply, flexed his hand once, and then reached for the blinding doorknocker.

* * *

"Steady now, miss," Estrella whispered over Elizabeth's shoulder. She then took hold of her mistress's new corset laces with the air of a trainer about to confront an untamed horse. Ann seized front of the corset at the waist. Then Estrella gave a powerful tug. Air flew from Elizabeth's lungs. 

Her father was still pondering the glorious Norrington. "A fine gentleman, don't you think?" he said.

The sharp retort about that opinion having been inarguably established the night before fell flat on her tongue as her ribs seemed to grate against one another. Her mouth opened and closed, her brow wrinkling upward.

"He fancies you, you know," Swann added.

Silence.

"Elizabeth?" Governor Swann hesitantly moved toward the screen. "How's it coming?"

"It's hard to say," she managed shortly, eyes flashing as she worked to stay on her feet.

"I'm told it's the latest fashion in London."

"Well, women in London must've learned not to breathe!" Elizabeth's voice jerked as Estrella yanked fiercely.

The bedroom door was opened by a white-wigged butler who inclined his kindly face respectfully. "My lord, you have a visitor."

* * *

Will uncomfortably smelled the absence of hot metal, donkey, rum, sweat, straw, dust, poultry, and butcher shop. It was so _clean_. In fact, the foyer of the Governor's mansion hadn't changed since he'd been a boy. 

Back then, he'd been headed for a new life. Mr. Brown had been at his side. A wiry blacksmith with a ready laugh and the smell of the streets on his shirt, Mr. Brown was going to take Will home and teach him a trade. This was good; Will would learn to make his way and resume searching for his father.

For as long as he could remember, Will's mother had always described his father as a handsome man who was _good_. Honest. Strong. Will had never seen the man but trying to be like him had somehow felt like touching him. Will was confident that his father would be proud of what a good young man he had become.

He examined his dusty shoes, clicking them together. Carefully, so as not to break the reverent silence, he polished one shoe on his calf. This did nothing but reveal a pile of dirt that now marred the otherwise spotless marble. He winced.

Standing immobile, he let his mind wander off to the way Miss Swann looked the last time he had seen her, a week before at the opening of an orphanage. She had been so far away and so lofty, like the angel he had thought she was. It had always been that way, and perhaps it was best.

He turned, searching for distraction, and his eyes caught upon branched candle fixture on the wall behind. Its cool gold tint drew him to it like a moth. He strained up to examine the handiwork, grasping one of the candle-bearing branches in one hand.

He noted the pathetic melding job...just before it proved how inadequate it was.

_Glangg–_Will realized he was lowering the now-disconnected branch in an icy hand as the stomach-punching snap echoed

And echoed

And echoed

Terribly through the hall, the entire hushed house. There was no language; oral or physical, which could express Will's profoundly horrified disbelief.

And then Providence completely abandoned him: the measured thud-thud-thud of footsteps sounded from the doorway on his left. A white blaze of stress engulfed his brain and he scrambled to hide the branch on his person.

He could not.

Barely able to hear the footsteps over his own heartbeat, he cast about and at the last instant dropped the branch into the urn behind him. He flinched at the hateful clang the branch gave when it hit the urn's base.

A white-wigged man stalked into the hall, a tray balanced upon a pompous hand. Will steadied himself, cleared his throat, and nodded politely, but received a turned up nose in response.

"Ah, Mr. Turner, nice to see you again!"

Will looked up to see Governor Swann descending the stairs in stately glory, followed by the friendly butler who had answered the door.

"Good day, sir." Reassured by the Governor's kind smile, Will strode forward and set his case on a polished table. "I have your order."

Raw nerves were numbed by the wave of excited pride that rose in him as he opened the presentation case, which creaked wonderfully as it revealed a sheathed dress sword that glittered and gleamed. He plucked the weapon out of its nest and presented it to the Governor, who slowly drew out inch after inch of liquid metal shine.

Will watched ardently, shoulders back, chin up. "The blade is folded steel. That's gold filigree laid into the handle." The Governor lifted the sword to examine the handle. Will bowed respectfully, hands outstretched. "If I may?"

The older man set the sword into Will's tan, callused hands and Will straightened, holding the masterpiece that had devoured his life for days. He balanced it on his fingertip, right where the blade met the guard. "Perfectly balanced. The tang is nearly the full width of the blade."

He deftly flipped the sword up, caught it by the blade and, clearing his throat uneasily, extended it handle-first toward the Governor.

"Impressive, very impressive." Somewhat flustered, the prim older man took the sword, glanced at it once more, and then sheathed it. "Commodore Norrington is going to be very pleased with this." He quickly handed it to Will, who smiled widely as he replaced the sword in its case.

"Oh," the Governor said, "please pass my regards on to your master."

Will's fingertips stumbled against the latches of the case. "I shall." He forced his fingers snap the latches carefully shut; forced himself to smile politely. "A craftsman is always pleased to know his work is appreciated."

He was thinking of how he could make the quickest exit when Swann looked to the top of the stairs. Will's gaze followed the Governor's.

His hands slid from the case to hang uselessly at his sides.

Governor Swann smiled. "Elizabeth! You look absolutely stunning."

One pale hand grasping the dark railing, her neck gracefully bent, she was focused on carefully descending, but paused at her father's voice. Her head came up and she smiled. "Will!" Her hand strayed to a gold chain that vanished under her bodice. "So good to see you!"

'Stunning' was definitely not the word to describe her. Was there a single word in the world up to the challenge? No. Every step she took, nearer, nearer, sent a wave of white-hot awareness over Will's brain; he couldn't even breathe. This was not like seeing her from afar, _not at all_.

She rustled up beside her father, not three feet away, and then he could faintly smell her sweet perfume. He had not been this close to her in years and to say that he felt grimy and smelly would not have done his embarrassment justice.

"I had a dream about you last night," she told him brightly.

There were delicate curls framing her smooth cheeks … she could not have said anything more mortifying yet pleasing! He stammered, "A dream, about me?"

Governor Swann was experiencing the deeply upsetting sensation of invisibility. "Elizabeth, is it entirely proper for you to be–"

"About the day we met," she interrupted, "don't you remember?"

The perfume was thicker now. "How could I forget, Miss Swann?"

Her long-lashed eyes brimmed with warmth. "Well, how many times must I ask you to call me Elizabeth?"

If eyes were swords, Will would have been lying in ribbons on the floor. Governor Swann's eyes were doing a passable job anyway: Will's tongue was shriveling in his mouth. "At least once more, Miss Swann." He tried to smile. "As always."

Her melted brown eyes froze and her glow, which had been so overwhelming, retracted with a snap. As she faded back, her father testily took control. "There, you see? At least the boy has a sense of propriety. Now." He reached past Will and picked up the sword case. "We really must be going." He passed the case to a servant, then marched out the front door. "Come along."

Elizabeth's chin was rising. Her eyes narrowed as she looked down her nose, suddenly as untouchable as an empress. Her icily disappointed "Good day, Mr. Turner" sent Will's heart slamming wretchedly into his heels, but the whorls of perfume that her brisk exit spun about him drew him after her like a thrall.

"Good day-" Following her outside, he almost tread on the heels of her last servant, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw a carriage door closing her elaborate skirt out of sight. The house door thudded shut at his back.

Her name swelled on his tongue, heavy as honey and just as amber, just as sweet.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, tipping the name into the air where it twisted away with the last ripples of her perfume, flying away on the morning breeze. Utterly empty, he slowly descended the stairs and watched her carriage clatter past the finely hinged gates and out of sight.


	6. Say Hello to Mr Smith

Thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean

* * *

Wind whipped across the mouth of Port Royal, bringing smiles to sailors' faces and fraying the tips of the waves as it soared into the morning sun. It was to be a fine day.

On its way the wind slipped past a small vessel, not much more than a rowboat with a single sail. There the breath of Aura faltered, as if doing a double take, before rushing on with a soft sigh.

The vessel with the power to make the breath of a goddess pause was the _Jolly Mon_, a weary fishing dory that looked somewhat out of place in the entrance of well to do Port Royal. It was clear: if boats could talk, this one's story would never end at a polite hour. Still, its lone passenger most likely could story-tell far longer considering he rode on the dory's single yardarm, perched high above his vessel. About his angular face and behind, his beaded ebony hair flipped wildly under a worn tri-cornered hat that was pulled tightly to his head. Grasping the slender mast with one tan hand, he squinted ahead like he was Apollo himself riding his sun chariot into the new sky.

He averted his gloriously burning gaze.

And saw that Apollo's chariot was less than first-rate. His upper lip curled; his brow furrowed. It was clear: 'Devastation' would have not done his sentiment justice. 'Annoyance' was far more suitable.

He grasped a rope hanging from the tip of the mast and, stepping blithely into midair, slid down into his boat.

Marvelously _sans_ rope burn, swashbuckling luminescence intact, he landed, his tall boots hitting with a _plash_. Everything below his ankles disappeared in brown sludge. His loose breeches billowed below the wide sash at his waist as he stumbled across his vessel and bent to snatch up a bucket that floated amongst rotted fish heads and shards of netting.

He managed to bail one stinking bucketful before a hollow clacking reached his ears.

Some yards off, a cluster of rough sea arches rose towering and foam-washed from the celestially sapphire waves. From the arches' undersides hung three corpses whose mottled skulls were cocked at shuddering angles, the cavities of their faces brown and crusted. Rags that had been clothing streamed from bone limbs; long tufts of salt-stiffened hair swung across gaping eye sockets. And the monsters grinned.

Beside an empty noose hung a crude wood sign that had scrawled crudely upon it: 'Pirates Ye Be Warned.'

As he passed, the man removed his hat, placed it over his heart and solemnly saluted the sign with grimy fingers, his black eyes levelly mocking.

_I'm tellin'you, mate, people these days…they've b'come so inhospitable. It's a lamentably lamentable sign of the times…_

Into the waking harbor he went.

Port Royal never slept, but when day found her, she became nothing short of astonishing. Her dull roar reached far across the rippling bay and her scent mixed intriguingly with the briny air of the Caribbean. Her collarbone was smothered with docks, cranes, trees; her shoulders writhed with persons, wagons, and animals. Rounded merchant ships hovered breathlessly at her elbows; dinghies swarmed up and down her undulating arms; fishermen tossed their nets into her rich hair. Her eyes welcomed every horizon; every nationality circled her long fingers...honesty shone from her forehead even as slyly evil pondering lurked behind her ears.

And profit poured from her mouth, into the Union Jack that hung about her neck.

Aye, Lady Royal was British perfection.

And she had a bodyguard,as befitted any female of worth. The warship lurking on the right side of the bay did not escape the newcomer's notice. Graceful yet bulky, her Union Jack stirring in the morning air, she gleamed in the bluff's shadow, her presence filling the bay as only a behemoth's can. From the opposite side of the harbor, the gold words curving over her glittering stern were readable: DAUNTLESS.

Port Royal became more and more intimate as her guest ventured closer. Uproar became furious haggling; almost-sinking dinghies became miniature shops hovering around massive square-riggers. Arms reached down for bales of wool and the squalling sheep to which the white fluff had formerly belonged. Meaningless jostling in the dinghies became a display of talent: it does, after all, take skill to lift a struggling animal up while standing in a dinghy that is trying with all its might to get you to topple over. Add to that other workers nudging past you and discarded oars and crates trying to trip you and the air full of shouting voices and gesturing arms, and it presents a challenging situation indeed.

Old Malerd, a white-haired stevedor was an example to the rest. Calm as if standing on solid ground, he paused to catch his breath, his tanned, arthritic hands brushing his thighs. His watery eyes took in the glassy, ripping water below him.

A half-submerged bucket bobbed merrily past, for an instant framing a reflection of his surprised face. He wondered if this were a good omen or a bad.

He was not prepared for the sight that awaited his lifted eyes.

Like an embarrassed woman with a ripped skirt, the _Jolly Mon_ was rushing toward the haven of the docks. All that was visible of the dory was its slender mast, which was rapidly disappearing. The creature perched up on the crow's nest did not seem concerned, however, about the water that gurgled up toward his boots with dire purpose.

A vacuum whirled in and out of existence as a hundred mouths sucked in shocked gasps. And then, utter silence.

Puzzling characters were a given in any port and Port Royal was no exception, but there were puzzling characters and then there were Puzzling Characters, and this one fell quite heavily into the latter category. Loftily aloof, his mien betrayed not an iota of embarrassment; in fact, his observers themselves began to feel embarrassed, for no reason other than they could not picture themselves filling this creature's grandiose boots.

The not so jolly _Jolly Mon_ slid right up to an empty dock, the passenger extended a straight leg, lurched neatly off his ride, and sauntered down the sunbathed planks, all clinking beads and swaying coat. He didn't even show signs of getting his land legs back.

The _Jolly Mon_ thudded to a halt on the dock's underwater supports, and continued to shrink down in humiliation.

Old Malerd grimly hefted a crate of oranges. _Ain't a good omen at all_.

The _Jolly Mon_'s erstwhile passenger was headed into the maze of docks. On his way he swaggered straight past Hubert Darrel the Harbormaster, a spectacled old man who did a double take. Upon noting the mournful mast at the end of his dock, he frantically whirled after the smelly sight that had only just assaulted his senses. "Wh–hold up there, you!"

The queer man lurched to a stop and swiveled drunkenly.

"It's a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock," Mr. Darrel said testily, glaring as the strange one minced up.

The creature blinked doubtfully at his boat. The Harbormaster followed his gaze.

A tiny, decorative crow's nest and a soggy, stocking-like flag returned their stares, wounded and indignant.

This Harbormaster of many years did not still possess his position because he constantly made exceptions. "And I shall need to know your name," he added firmly.

Digging into some pocket, the strange man produced three coins and slapped them onto the open logbook Mr. Darrel held.

Brown-black eyes like the Harbormaster had never seen gazed into his own. Underlined with kohl like a nomad's, they stared out of a tanned, exotically triangular face, made so by high cheekbones and a straight, fine nose with a black mustache beneath. Wide red fabric and hat covered the forehead, and beads mixed with dreadlocks and braids and loose hair to frame the face's sides. More disconcerting, narrow scruff followed the man's jaw to gather just beneath his narrow chin in twin beaded braids.

When the man spoke, his voice was lax, velvety. "Whadya say to three shillings, an' we forget the name?"

The Harbormaster gazed from behind his spectacles at those sunlit eyes. They looked half-mad, he reflected, like a heat-dazed rabbit's. He thumped his ledger closed with the shillings inside, puckering his thin mouth into what might have been a smile. "Welcome to Port Royal, Mr. Smith."

The newly christened Mr. Smith pressed his open hands impertinently together as if in a prayer of thanks. Mr. Darrel sniffed and quickly retreated down the dock to inspect the remnant of Mr. Smith's boat.

Mr. Smith lurched in the other direction. He paused, eyes upon a sturdy writing desk that was built onto the rail. A thick braid of his hair swished at the back of his head as he reached out and delicately picked up the small purse that rested on the deck's surface. He shook it.

Coins jingled. Smirking, Mr. Smith tightened his grip on it and strolled off.

* * *

Mr. Smith was always fair to himself. When he had done something worth rewarding, he rewarded himself. He could not resist spending the money he had so cleverly lifted off the sour old Harbormaster, and that was why he ended up in a quiet tavern called _The Cackling_ _Barmaid_. The sign with a leering hag–warts on her nose and all–holding frothy mugs did really intrigue him, and he knew shortly after entering that the drink was not so bad at all.

Besides, he was in Port Royal, of all places. There could only be more taverns in Tortuga, and he'd been to Tortuga recently, relatively speaking, whereas he had not had the opportunity to sample the delights of Port Royal for a long time, relatively speaking.

He sipped at his flagon, snug in a shadow, far from the morning sun. As it was morning, the tavern was empty, save for himself and three old hardy drinkers who sat at one table in the dusty light. They were the type that have long since reached the end of enthusiastic life and begun an existence of motionless reality, where graves loom closer and closer over bald heads. They chatted worn thoughts in worn voices, and Mr. Smith listened with growing curiosity.

"He can't be _that_ big–how else could he have slipped through th' cannon port like an eel?" This man had a jaw that was as heavy as his muscled body, and spotted skin that was clearly growing tired of clinging to his muscles. He resembled, Mr. Smith reflected, a prune.

"He was _big_!" insisted a second man, slamming his flagon on the table. His brow was heavy and shiny, low over a chubby face, which crowned a flabbier body. "He's huge," Chubby continued, "_gotta_ be huge, or how could he 'ave heaved up the heavy cannons Admiral Coonts put over the hatch to keep 'im in the _Peerless_' hold?" His voice went higher and higher as he spoke, because Prune was shaking his head and smiling condescendingly. Chubby ended up slamming his flagon again, glaring.

"I 'eard he tied bits o' sharp metals in his hair–that be why 'e clinks so–and 'e whips people with 'is hair!" This weepy-eyed gentleman was the eldest. His voice was like the creaking of a mast, and he did not seem to be quite there, Mr. Smith decided.

"Oh, yes, of course he does," Prune agreed dryly, all wrinkles. "And then, when he's whippin' people, he's whippin' himself–an' how would he sleep? Honestly, Cap, y'can't believe everythin' you hear, 'specially not about ole Jack Sparra."

Cap was either half-deaf or miffed because he closed his watery eyes and started humming a nonsense tune to himself. Prune and Chubby ignored him.

"Never forget the first time I heard a' Sparra's _Peerless_ adventure," Prune said with a toothless smile, stroking his massive, stubbly jaw. "The ingenuity of the fella, impersonating a naval officer, after committing a fair bit a'arson to get the money for a uniform and bribes. An' old Admiral Coonts took 'im on the _Peerless_, and then couldn't understand how all his fortune disappeared!"

"Yes, until th'addled pirate walked up'n'explained he'd stole it all," Chubby said. "And still he managed to get away, after the Admiral locked him in the brig and set cannons over the hatch into the hold to keep him down. Sparrow managed th'escape 'cause of his huge self," he added pointedly, but when Prune ignored the jab, Chubby went on: "The British want 'im so bad now, he can't do much more without gettin' caught'n hung. And there's such a price on his head!" Chubby cackled. "If we found Sparrow an' turned him in, we'd be able to buy this place with the reward money."

"What a life," Prune mused. "So free an–"

"I heard 'e files 'is fingernails to nasty points, an' gouges people with 'em!" said Cap.

Mr. Smith looked at his ring-graced hands.

Prune and Chubby snickered. "An' what else did ya hear?" Prune asked Cap.

"He ain't real, gents," Cap said heavily, staring into nowhere. "He be a spirit, a figment of boyish imaginations–"

At Prune's and Chubby's protests, Cap straightened and his eyes focused. "Have ye seen 'im?" Cap demanded, voice stronger as he glared at his companions. "'ave ye's?"

"No," reluctantly said Prune.

"No," Chubby mumbled.

Mr. Smith smiled.

"An' the Navy ain't, either," Cap snapped. "They're just always makin' up stories like Jack-O's so they can seem to still 'ave a mission about these parts. Th'Navy used t'be somethin' truly great but now its only a bunch a' heavy-footed ol' ego-puffers."

"Hear, hear!" Mr. Smith cried. His exclamation made the sunlit trio jump. They squinted at him as he sauntered up to them, flagon in hand: a spirit from the shadows. "And as for the reality of Jack Sparrow," Mr. Smith planted his free hand on their table and leaned into their circle, "I think he's _real_ enough, but so truly, realistically unreal, he could be standing here with us right now. Really," he added, smiling a gold-toothed smile.

Cap's eyes became unfocused and he began to hum again. His friends frowned and scrutinized the character that slouched lopsidedly before them. "That may be so," Prune said. "Who're you?"

"A fellow rum-lover and optimist," Mr. Smith said.

"Wot?" Chubby shifted, and both men exchanged glances.

"Lovely t'have made your acquaintance, sirs," said Mr. Smith. "Continue to have fun blowing air 'round this place." Cheerily, he emptied his flagon and set it on their table. They scowled at his back as he left.

Mr. Smith was not ready to surrender lovely water for filthy cobblestones yet, so he ambled his way down Port Royal's extensive waterfront, keeping an eye out for the vessel that might was meant to fulfill his secret purpose.

He could smell the fish market before he saw it. A few steps more, and then he paused beside a clump of palms to take in the sight of a hundred fishing vessels crunched between makeshift docks and dragged onto gray sand. And then he looked over the market itself, a huge expanse of overflowing nets, barrels, crates, and tables already swarming with housewives and servants. Men gleaming with sweat toiled constantly to ferry fish from the waterfront to the market, where other men hacked the fish to neat pieces, arms coated with slime and scales. The sound of haggling was almost deafening. Mr. Smith grinned appreciatively.

_Thunk_.

Beside his left ear.

It only took one glance to identify the thunking object. It was sharp. It was shiny. It was a knife, embedded into the palm tree's hairy side. Mr. Smith whirled behind the tree as–_thunk_–another blade slammed into where his midsection had just been.

_Bad form, mate…there be no need to bring innocent bystanders into this. The palm trees never hurt you, did they?_

Mr. Smith huddled, making himself as thin as possible, breathing shallowly.

Nothing happened.

Finally, he peeped out.

He met the almond-shaped eyes of a man who stood twenty feet away, fingering a third knife. Mr. Smith retreated quickly, eyes wide. "Who're you?" he shouted at the palm tree in front of his nose.

Nothing happened. He dared another glance.

The man beckoned. With his knife.

Mr. Smith began to hold up a finger, then changed his mind and quickly pulled it back to safety. "I was just wonderin' if y'could tell me why you're throwing things at me with th'intent of–I'm goin' out on a limb here–skewering me."

The Oriental man smiled, revealing black teeth. His short, wiry body seemed to ripple as he took a step forward. "Feng say to you: 'May you die like the pathetic, nerveless dog you are.'" He drew back his arm to throw.

Mr. Smith frowned at him. "Well, to die as a nerveless dog means I can't come out an' bravely become an easy target. You don't mind, d'you?" He jerked back as the blade sang past his temple, and then threw himself to the ground. His momentum carried him under an abandoned cart and he surged to his feet on the other side, sprinting full tilt into the market. He heard the Oriental's yowl behind him.

Elbows first, he shoved his way through laborers. A barrel toppled off someone's shoulder; a crate was dropped on a man's foot. Squid flopped and plopped; fish slid rasping, staring. Smith looked back. The Oriental was leaping onto a table and now off it, sending conch shells flying. His teeth were barred; his knife flashed.

That was when Mr. Smith ran forehead first into a huge tray carried on the shoulders of two men. He slammed onto his backside and looked up just in time to get a first rate view of a codfish cascade, right before it hit him on the head. He twisted to the side. The cold, rough bodies of codfish enveloped him, the tray hit his leg, and then he was underneath a table, ears ringing with outraged shouts. He rolled to his hands and knees, panting, dirt and scales caught in his hair. He clutched a fish in each hand, watching the scrambling feet all around him.

A very hairy head popped into view. The face twisted into a scowl. " 'ere he is!"

The man got a cod in the eye before he knew what was happening. In the two seconds it took him to cover his face and become truly outraged, Mr. Smith was gone.

Feng's man slowed his full-out charge, then came to a halt and looked around, breathing hard. A worker was huddled near a table, holding his eye. Others were angrily gathering up codfish onto a tray.

Calm had returned; his prey's trail of disaster had run cold. He gritted his teeth, furious. Then his attitude became wary, almost afraid as he realized his disadvantage.

Behind him, a mincing worker with a sash about his waist and clinking beads in his hair carried a large pail on one shoulder. Suddenly the worker turned twisted and shoved his bucket onto the Oriental's head. Slimy fish innards slid down the Oriental's neck as he reeled, his knife falling to the ground. On his knees he struggled to pull the pail off, heart pounding.

Someone wrapped an arm around the pail and yanked his head back. He had time to remember his lost knife, time for his blood to run cold, before a thread of ice slid into his neck.

_Sayonara, mate._


	7. A Bit Superfluous, Really

Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney

* * *

Elizabeth Swann was a lady, but she knew many words a lady should not, and some of those words had begun to slip into her thoughts.

As she had been for fifteen minutes, she sat beside a woman who was not exactly partial to chatting. Though the silence was uncomfortable, it was best because Elizabeth felt ready to bite something. She looked pleadingly back at her father, who was standing grandly on a platform with several naval officers. With his eyes, he signaled her for patience.

Dwarfed by the proud walls of Fort Charles walls, forty or so guests rustled and cleared their throats. Jeweled canes and parasols glinted as their owners listened to the flapping of a British flag and tried not to look at the self-conscious troops that filled the rest of the courtyard with their blue and white uniforms.

Elizabeth glanced with cross longing at the troops' loose coats and breeches, and her corset pinched her as punishment.

Then, a hush fell, and marching feet could be heard, mixed with a drum and fife. All eyes focused past the troops to the arch beyond.

First, there came the musicians, who were followed by two rows of red-clad British Marines. The sound of the marching feet wound about the cheery melody of the fife, and the audience stood as one. Elizabeth, winded by the effort, waved her lace fan quickly to soothe herself. She bowed her head, focusing on catching her breath.

The fife and drums died away. She looked up as a brusque voice directed the two lines of Marines to face each other. Then as one, the men crossed their bayoneted muskets to form a glinting tunnel.

At the end of which, the new Commodore appeared, hands folded behind his back.

Dashing was exactly the word with which to describe him. He shone with lofty polish, all the way from his perfectly buckled shoes his feather-crowned hat. White-wigged, buttons gleaming, he paused in the archway and let his presence sink in before striding forward into the quiet courtyard.

_A short drop and a sudden stop._

Crazily, the words reverberated in Elizabeth's mind as she watched the handsome man who had spoken them pace the tunnel. He was older now, but he hadn't changed.

* * *

The blue-black uniform with its incredible lapels was heavy, magnificently so. This was the weight of authority and power, and James Norrington had been waiting a long time to don it.

He wished that his father were alive to see him so honored. As he approached the front of the courtyard, he saw the admirals and other commodores waiting for him, and it was difficult to maintain a measured stride, his desire to join their ranks was so strong. He breathed deeply as he stepped up onto the platform of the elite and received his credentials from a large, hard-faced admiral who wore his uniform like a cat its skin. After accepting the congratulations of the other officers, turned toward Governor Swann.

The Governor beamed with paternal pride as he held forth one of the most magnificent swords that Norrington had ever seen. He grasped the glittering handle; it fit the curve of his palm perfectly. Slowly, he drew out a flawless blade, mesmerized by its cool gleam. The weapon had a comfortable weight and when he swung it, his arm sang that its balance was impeccable. Swelling with pride, he crisply saluted the Governor, wondering if any man had ever been so very, very happy.

And then his eyes looked beyond the blade, to a young governor's daughter who stood demurely at attention for him, dark eyes lifted to his glory.

A terrifying wave of tender speechlessness left James blinking to keep his eyes dry.

* * *

_So this's where you've been hiding the beauty I've been hearin' rumors about. Up here, all snug where you can keep an eye on her from your nice little fort…Fort Charles, innit?_

_I can see why y'secreted her away, lads. She's lovely. Lovely._

Mr. Smith's choice of the _Jolly Mon_ as a vessel might have cast doubt upon his discernment where ships were concerned, but this doubt would have been badly placed. He knew ships as well as a woman knows her face and he could sniff out the best vessels with the uncanny ease of a hound. Especially the vessels nobody wanted to be found.

The H.M.S. _Interceptor_, true jewel of Port Royal, chafed at her secluded dock, unaware of her keenly appreciative observer. Low, sleek, light, she sat with her white wings folded to her spars, devoid of any crew. She was a falcon at rest with a hood over her eyes.

_Let her spread her wings an' she'll take of with a shriek, almost unmatchable. It wouldn't take much, if y'did it right…_

Mr. Smith drank in the quiet, glanced warily about, then made his sauntering way down an incline to the _Interceptor_'s elaborate tether.

The dock had two levels, an upper with massive cranes for loading, and a lower with narrow gangplanks for boarding. The British were not complete lummoxes, therefore, as Mr. Smith expected, there were guards on the lower level. Unfazed, Smith scuttled out onto the upper level and huddled down beside the ramp that plunged below.

He listened.

"You're always putting my name down, as if you have reason to be proud of your own, _Murtogg_. I say your face echoes your name, what with that _dog_-like nose a' yours!"

"You were always jealous. Mullroy. _Roy_. What's that mean? Sounds like some fat heathen name from the north lands–Roy, it's part of your name and you–"

"Fat? _This_ isn't fat–you've not seen _fat_, you little twig of a boy. And I _do_ have heathen blood in my veins and am proud of it. Makes me better in a fight, better than you, you little…green-blood!"

"Better in a fight, ha! And 'green-blooded'? That's not a term used in describing blood, I'll have you know."

Mr. Smith wiped his hands on his coat, slid to his feet, and started down the ramp.

"_Have me know_. Well, well, aren't we getting all high and mighty! Little twiggy Murtogg!"

Their voices went low and furious, just as Mr. Smith strode into view. He noted them with a nonchalant glance, then hurried for the gangplank. Sadly, they spotted him and they scrambled into his path.

"This dock is off-limits to civilians," the thinner one–Murtogg?–on the right announced, his large nose up.

Mr. Smith raised a hand. "I'm terribly sorry," he said earnestly. "If I see one–" he lifted a finger reassuringly "–I shall inform you immediately." He then tried to slip around, but they clattered in front of him again.

Swallowing annoyance, he looked the two up and down. "Apparently there's some sort of high-toned an' fancy to-do up at the fort, aye?"

Murtogg looked to the fort.

"How could it be that two upstanding gentlemen such as yourselves," he encompassed both with one gesture, "didn't merit an invitation?" His eyes met each of theirs in turn, squinting in both sympathy and scorn.

The heavy Marine's lower lip sagged in his round face, but Murtogg rallied. "Someone has to make sure this dock stays off-limits to civilians."

"This must be some important boat."

"_Ship_," the paunchy Marine–Mullroy–corrected indignantly.

"Ship, right." Mr. Smith nodded. "Boats fit on ships–innit that it?"

Murtogg jutted a thumb proudly over his shoulder. "Captain Norrington's made it his flagship. He'll use it to hunt down the last dregs of piracy on the Spanish Lake."

"Commodore," Mullroy said.

"Right." Murtogg flapped a hand. "_Commodore_ Norrington."

Mr. Smith was nodding. "A fine goal, to be sure. But it seems to me that a–" he slid suddenly to the left and the Marines warily followed "–a ship like that," he gestured dramatically toward the _Dauntless_, "makes this one a bit superfluous, really."

The Marines followed his eyes to the distant warship that hugged the far cliffs. Mullroy turned back first. "Ahe," he said, "the _Dauntless_ is the power in these waters true enough. But there's no ship that can match the _Interceptor_ for speed."

Mr. Smith put his forefinger on his narrow chin. Then he pointed the digit at the Marines. "I've heard a' one, it's supposed to be very fast, nigh uncatchable." He paused, eyes darting back and forth between the men.

"The _Black Pearl_."

Round Mullroy laughed, while skinny Murtogg's mouth began to pucker upward in the most peculiar manner. "Aho," Mullroy chortled, "there's no _real_ ship as can match the _Interceptor._"

Murtogg turned on him. "The _Black Pearl_ is a real ship."

"No," Mullroy was still chuckling, "no, it's not." He glanced at Mr. Smith, who held his peace.

"Yes, it is. I've seen it."

Mullroy frowned upon his peer. "You've seen it."

"Yes."

"You've seen the _Black Pearl_."

"Yes."

"You haven't seen it."

The outlandish Mr. Smith's gaze slipped wearily to the side.

"Yes, I have."

"You've seen a ship with black sails," said Mullroy to Murtogg, "that is crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil," his eyes went wide as they bored into Murtogg's, "that Hell itself spat him back out?"

"No."

Mullroy nodded, lapsing into heavy-lidded smugness. "No." He remembered Mr. Smith, who gave him a stiff smile.

"But I have seen a ship with black sails," Murtogg insisted.

"Oh!" Mullroy whirled on his companion. "And no ship that's _not_ crewed by the damned and captained by a man so evil that Hell itself spat him back out could possibly have black sails, therefore couldn't possibly be any other ship than the _Black Pearl. _Is that what you're saying?"

Dazed, Murtogg smiled and nodded. "…No."

"Like I said, there no _real_ ship as can match the _Intercepte–_"

They both turned to the bizarre man and found empty air. Casting wildly about, they quickly spotted him standing at the helm of the _Interceptor_ as if he belonged there.

"Hey!" They flew up the gangplank. "Get away from there!" Mullroy cried as they edged down the deck, their muskets raised. "You're not permitted to be aboard there, mate."

Mr. Smith looked at them, startled, still grasping the helm. "I'm sorry." He shrugged helplessly, "But it's such a pretty boat." Quickly his hand went out in a placating gesture, "Ship."

"What's your name?" skinny Murtogg demanded.

"Smith. Or Smithy, if ya like."

The muzzle of Mullroy's musket came down, along with his eyelids. "What's your purpose in Port Royal, _Mr. Smith_?"

"Yeh–and no lies," Murtogg added.

"Well, then." Smith stepped easily away from the helm. "I confess…"

The Marines retreated, raising their muskets again.

"It is my intention," Smith said frankly as he casually grasped some rigging, "to commandeer one of these ships, pick up a crew in Tortuga, raid, pillage, plunder, and otherwise pilfer my weasly black guts out."

"I said no lies!"

"I think he's telling the truth," murmured Mullroy.

"If he was telling the truth, he wouldn'ta told us," Murtogg retorted impatiently.

"Unless, of course," Mr. Smith spoke up, "he knew you wouldn't believe the truth even if he told you."

Murtogg smiled and puckered, and then it all slid off his face.

* * *

"Your gown looked so wonderful last night, Elizabeth. At the ball, I mean. Was it Mrs. Talbot's handiwork?"

Elizabeth nodded. "I'm sure the embroidery gave it away immediately."

Miss Hattie Remmons, Elizabeth's childhood friend, gracefully inclined her blond head, then looked at Elizabeth with twinkling gray eyes. "I noticed a certain gentleman solicited your hand a number of times…"

Behind Hattie, her younger sisters suddenly took interest in the conversation.

Elizabeth just smiled and shook her head, glancing over at her father, who was enjoying the company of several seasoned naval officers some yards away.

The ceremony was over, and the neat audience had scattered about the courtyard. Many guests, Elizabeth included, had found refuge from the sun under the courtyard's many-arched entry. They nibbled on treats served by expressionless servants, while a small group of musicians played polite music.

Hattie touched Elizabeth's arm gently, her smile understanding. "Tell me, are you planning on attending Mrs. Howesworth's for tea next week?"

"Yes."

"Good, because I want you to meet my cousin. She's the sweetest thing and its her first time away from England. She would love you."

Elizabeth was able to genuinely smile. "Then I am eager to meet her. What's her name?"

"Amelia. She has no siblings, but she's not a bit spoiled. She's truly the dearest–oh, what is it, Beth?"

Beth gestured minutely to her slender mother, who was beckoning.

Hattie turned back and clasped Elizabeth's hand. "Sorry, dearest, but I'd really better not vex Mama. I will look for you at Mrs. Howesworth's."

"Thank you, Hattie. I'll be there." As Hattie hurried off, Elizabeth felt every bit of discomfort that had been negated by Hattie's warm presence return, and suddenly, she wished she were in her room, where she could rip herself free of both new dress and boredom.

She turned toward her father and came face to face with the new commodore himself. Their gazes met, and he actually colored. He offered her a hand. "If I may have a moment?"

At her assent, he escorted her in utter silence to a high parapet. Despite his assistance the going was slow, and when he finally helped her onto the loftily secluded perch, she was breathing hard, her pain having increased tenfold. She was glad when he pulled away from her, and she shifted into the shelter of a bell frame, wondering how much more she could endure.

The warm breeze rustled their clothing, and an inch from their feet there was open air, all the way down to the jewel harbor. Norrington squinted into the warm sun, then looked at Elizabeth. All she could manage was the weak waving of her fan.

"A–you look lovely, Elizabeth."

Wondering where 'Miss Swann' had disappeared to, she gave him a brightly forced smile. Then she looked out to sea again, perspiring and miserable.

Taken slightly aback, he turned away. "I, uh, apologize if I seem forward, but I...must speak my mind." He swallowed hard. He had never guessed that a naval battle could be easier than _this_, here. "This promotion throws into sharp relief that which I have not yet achieved." He turned back to her and felt his entire body hum with adrenaline. "A marriage to a fine woman."

Her heart was pounding faster than it ever had in her entire life. She looked at him sidelong with large eyes, lips parted before clenched teeth.

"You have become a fine woman," he continued earnestly, wondering intensely if he was saying the right things.

His emerald eyes were vulnerable in his chiseled face, but Elizabeth could barely see them past the pretty sparkles in her vision. Now his words spun in her head. She felt her mouth open and close as she pressed a hand to her midsection. "I can't breathe," she wheezed.

"Yes, I–" relieved, Norrington turned away, hands clasped at his back, "I'm a bit nervous myself."

Elizabeth collapsed off the wrong side of the parapet without a sound.

* * *

"So, the Hiluwillawallas are only found on Makinuna Island," Mullroy raised an eyebrow.

"It's Makinun_u_," Mr. Smith corrected patiently. "A tiny, tiny island somewhere 'round St. Lorrie–the name don't ring a bell? Odd. Well, they're rather diminutive, the Hiluwillawallas, with wedge-shaped feet, every one a' them. Very, very hospitable. Once they looked over me feet, of course."

Murtogg got more comfortable against the _Interceptor_'s rail. "And then what?"

"Fed me five bananas. They saw I was taller than them or somethin', an' they made me their leader." Smith shrugged, apparently baffled by his own memory. The Marines nodded thoughtfully.

There came a faint male bellow: "Elizabeth!"

The companionable trio rushed to the rail, and looked up, up, up the cliff. A tiny figure was hanging off Fort Charles, looking down and yelling.

"Elizab_eth_!!"

As one, the men's eyes came down.

The jaws of Murtogg and Mullroy dropped.

_There goes everything_. Mr. Smith squinted grimly at the glaringly white flower of foam that was dissipating near the cliff's base. He pointed at Mullroy. "Will you be saving her, then?"

The Marine blanched. "I can't swim!"

With tight smile, Mr. Smith turned to Murtogg, who just shook his long-nosed face.

"Pearls of the King's Navy you are," Mr. Smith muttered, and yanked his hat off. Murtogg and Mullroy stared, the Hiluwillawalla story becoming suddenly far more believable than before.

The man's revealed head sported a red-maroon sash which, folded in a wide band about his forehead, burrowed back into his hair. A thick braid rested between his shoulder blades, a long needle of bone hung from a lopsided topknot on the right side. Beads made of wood, metal and bone hung over the bandana and along his jaw. The smell that had always been present, of spices and fish and sweat, intensified and Murtogg and Mullroy were in awe.

Mr. Smith shoved his hat into Mullroy's arms. "Do not lose these." A pistol, sword belt, and coat followed the hat. Then the two Marines mutely watched Smith pull himself onto the _Interceptor_'s smooth rail and dive like a pin into the water.

Everything became oddly calm, which only made Murtogg and Mullroy more nervous. Their eyes searched the glassy waves, but the expressionless green-blue revealed nothing.

The deathly silence was punctured by a heart-punching, ear-popping thud. A circle-ripple spread over the water's surface and vanished in the blink of an eye.

"What was that?" Murtogg asked.

That was when the wind hit.

A flapping noise drew Murtogg's gaze upward. The _Interceptor_'s massive British ensign curled around itself, flapping through rigging. Then it streamed in the opposite direction from before. The pair was forced to seize their hats as the damp wind swelled, hissing through the fronds of the palm trees.

Only a minute had passed, and the idyllic morning had died, suffocated by a grubby haze.

* * *

Onshore now, Old Malerd paused loading crates to watch the clouds roil over the sun. He sniffed deeply. This new air smelled ever so slightly of rot. His heart went cold. He thought of the arrogant stranger who had arrived earlier, his pure oddness seeming to herald change.

_Old Malerd is never wrong._

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Read and review!!


	8. Catch Him if You Can

I need to give HUGE thanks to jedipati for offering to be my beta, and betaing this chapter for me. You've got to check out her oneshot The Worst Feeling; it's the most creative perspective on the lifting of the Aztec curse you'll ever read.

Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates!

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The sea cradled its lovely prize with a mother's hand; untangling her hair and letting it stream up about her peaceful face. It moved her limbs in a heartbreakingly graceful dance as it set her ever so lovingly on a bed of flawless white sand–

Like a merman, Mr. Smith swam fiercely down to her side. His arms circled her tiny waist and he gracefully surged upward, pushing off that disappointed sand.

In seconds, he broke the water's surface and blew like a whale in the sun; the girl's head a weary weight on his shoulder. He began to swim arduously for the dock, but her weight dragged him under. Kicking, suspended in the murkiness, he released her and without a second's hesitation grasped her bodice and wrenched it clean open with a dull rasp. He shoved the dress' sleeves off her cold arms then dragged her up once more, leaving her gown to sink into a school of minnows.

Wondering if they were going to be the first to confront a tragedy that would be remembered for decades, Murtogg and Mullroy rushed off of the _Interceptor_ to meet Mr. Smith as he paddled up to the dock. Panting, he lifted Elizabeth's weight to their worried hands, then clambered slowly out, gasping for breath.

The Marines set her gingerly on the wood planks, kneeling on either side. Pulse racing, Mullroy pushed a limp clump of dark hair from her blue lips with a shaking hand. "Not breathing!"

"Move!" Mr. Smith bowled them both aside and kneeled over her limp form. To their horror, he produced a heavy dagger. Before they could stop him, he rapidly slashed the front lacing of her corset and yanked the whole pink thing off her. He tossed it into Murtogg's shocked arms.

She gasped a lungful of air. She choked. Rolling half over, she violently began to cough water onto the planks.

The Marines let out sharp breaths.

"I never woulda thought of that," Mullroy said, wishing his heart would slow.

Mr. Smith looked up at Mullroy as water dripped down his narrow nose. "Clearly, you've never been to Singapore."

He looked back Elizabeth. Trying to regain her breath, she gaped up at him, and their eyes met.

_What a lovely brown. And the lashes are first-rate, darling._ The invitingly generous lips would be just as nice when blood decided to reach them again...but Smith was no idiot; he knew he should retreat before the arrival of her general-issue male protectors.

But before he could move, he saw it.

Elizabeth was still trying to come to terms with waking up in her undergown with the strangest human being she had ever seen hovering above her. She was relieved when the man's piercing gaze shifted, but she did not like the way it narrowed on what had diverted it. Unable to move, she waited as he reached down, and then stiffened when he plucked up the medallion from where it lay on its chain by her sleeve.

He looked back at her with his strangest expression yet, curiously menacing. "Where did you get that?"

Feeling unprofessionally vicious, Commodore James Norrington clattered up with his Marines, unsheathing his new sword. He shoved its glinting tip before Mr. Smith's face. "On your feet."

That arctic voice was definitely not to be ignored. Mr. Smith stood, hands half-raised.

"Elizabeth!"

She jumped at her father's breathless voice, looked around, and shrank at the sight of surrounding Marines who were trying unsuccessfully not to look at her indecency. Then Governor Swann burst from their midst and pulled her quickly up to himself.

"Are you all right?" His voice quivered as he pulled his overcoat around her shuddering frame, shutting away her thin white under gown from sight.

"Yes–yes, I'm fine." She tucked the medallion into her bodice with numb fingers, gaze straying to Mr. Smith.

As Governor Swann tightened the overcoat about her, he suddenly looked at Murtogg. When his eyes found Murtogg, they found Elizabeth's mangled corset. And they went murderous.

Alarmed, Murtogg threw down the feminine thing and pointed at Mr. Smith.

The Governor's dagger glare fastened on the dripping man. "Shoot him!"

"Father!" Elizabeth's icy hand grasped her father's arm. "Commodore." Her dark eyes captured Norrington. "Do you really intend to kill my rescuer?"

Commodore Norrington, lips tight, bowed his head and lowered his sword. His Marines lowered their muskets.

Mr. Smith turned to Elizabeth. Smiling, he bobbed once, hands prayerfully together. Norrington, jaw set, sharply sheathed his sword. "I believe thanks are in order." He extended his hand.

Mr. Smith hesitated, his smallest fingers up in the air in a dainty manner. Then he gingerly slid his hand into the Commodore's.

Norrington yanked Mr. Smith forward and whipped back his drenched sleeve. He gazed knowingly down at the pink scar in the shape of a P on Smith's wrist. "Had a brush with the East India Trading Company, did we, _pirate_?"

Mr. Smith winced. Shock roiled through the group, and suddenly he was again the focus of many musket sights.

Governor Swann was completely flabbergasted. "Hang him!"

_With pleasure_. "Keep your guns on him, men," Norrington ordered. "Gillette, fetch some irons." He pushed the pirate's sleeve up further, revealing a fine tattoo of a bird soaring over before a blazing sun. "Well, well. Jack Sparrow–" he shove-released the pirate's hand "–isn't it?"

The pirate fidgeted. "_Captain_ Jack Sparrow, if you please."

Norrington smiled mockingly as he looked over the harbor. "I don't see your ship, Captain."

"I'm in the market." The pirate squinted his dark eyes. "As it were."

Murtogg spoke up. "He said he'd come to commandeer one."

"I told you he was telling the truth," Mullroy gloated.

Jack Sparrow gave Murtogg a victimized look that somehow managed to be dangerous at the same time. Murtogg swallowed.

Eager to please, Mullroy grunted as he bent and picked up everything but the pirate's coat from the dock. He presented the pile to the Commodore. "These are his, sir."

It was Mullroy's turn to get a look from Sparrow. He fidgeted.

Norrington picked up the pirate's pistol, a wicked gleam coming into his eyes. Jack Sparrow lifted his hands unhappily.

"No additional shot nor powder," Norrington crisply tossed the pistol to his other hand, then replaced it on the pile. He snatched up a worn, elegant little box and opened it. It gave a tiny creak. "A compass that doesn't point north," Norrington continued, smiling at Jack Sparrow, who lowered his eyes.

The new commodore then pulled the pirate's sword halfway from its scabbard and inspected the length of steel. He smirked. "And I half expected it to be wood."

Jack smiled a smile of pain as Norrington announced, "You are without a doubt the worst pirate I've ever heard of."

Jack smugly raised pointed forefingers. "But you _have_ heard of me." He smirked back. Incensed, Norrington grabbed Jack's arm and jerked him roughly away through the Marines.

Elizabeth was shocked. She did not like this mocking, icy Commodore Norrington at all. Before she could think too hard about what she was doing, she bravely threw off her father's coat and stalked after him. Governor Swann scurried after her, the discarded garment held out before him. "Commodore, I really must protest." She came up beside Norrington, shivering in her drenched underclothing.

"Carefully, Lieutenant." He barely gave her a glance, choosing instead to closely observe Jack Sparrow's shackling. The pirate stood dejectedly near the foundation of one of the massive cranes, surrounded by tense Marines.

Indignant anger closed Elizabeth's sore throat. Before Governor Swann could shove his coat over her shoulders, Elizabeth planted herself in front of Norrington and faced him fiercely. "Pirate or not, this man saved my life."

Norrington's brow creased as he looked at her pale face. He wanted nothing more than to get her out of sight and save her the humiliation she had to be feeling, but part of him was impressed. "One good deed is not enough to redeem a lifetime of wickedness."

"Though it seems enough to condemn him," Jack growled.

"Indeed." Norrington's voice was frosty. He avoided Elizabeth's gaze, wishing her father would at least attempt to reason with her. But Governor Swann seemed to be at his wit's end, unable to meet his daughter's blazing eyes, and when the Marines stepped back from a manacled Sparrow, he looked relieved, as if everyone could go home now and all would be well.

It was not to be.

"Finally," the pirate muttered as he lunged up behind Elizabeth. The circle of his bound arms descended over her head in an instant he had her trapped against him, manacle chain to her neck. She barely had time to gasp before he was backing her away. In one extremely deadly moment of uncontrollable emotion, musket muzzles came up and outraged eyes sighted down the barrels–

_I'm almost sorry t'have to do this, sweetling…though between you an' me, I doubt you'll find yourself six feet under tonight–_

"No, no, don't shoot!" the Governor cried, and the moment passed. The muzzles came down, and Sparrow was pinioned by a dozen glacial glares. He didn't mind.

"I knew you'd warm up to me," he told the growling group, eyes obsidian-hard. He halted. Elizabeth's bare heel landed lightly on his toe then was quickly gone. "Commodore, my effects, please." He raised a finger. "And my hat."

Hands clenched, Norrington struggled with himself, almost unable bear the sight of the clever pirate, while the Governor's eyes were desperate upon him.

"Commodore!" Jack Sparrow tightened the chain. Norrington whirled and grabbed the pile of effects from Mullroy.

"Elizabeth, it is Elizabeth, isn't it?" Sparrow murmured.

She was too angry to even shiver. "It's Miss Swann!"

His lips brushed her flattened hair; his breath warmed her ear and cheek. "Miss Swann, if you'd be so kind." She was silent, teeth clenched. "Come, come, my dear, we don't have all day."

Norrington stepped up to Elizabeth, and, with apology in his eyes, piled Jack Sparrow's things into her arms. She caught them clumsily, grabbing for the pistol, but the pirate was faster. He deftly snatched the weapon, captured her shoulder in an iron grasp, and then wrenched her around to face him.

His face was only inches from hers and his wet sash pressed into her middle. His voice scathingly soft, he said, "Now, if you'll be very kind."

As she understood his request, Elizabeth's jaw slid minutely forward, and color returned to her face in a wave of pink. Seething, she looked down at the pile she could barely hold, and Sparrow looked down at her with admiring approval, happy to keep her close with his arms about her shoulders.

Elizabeth took the pirate's worn hat first, and slapped it onto his dark head. Then, her sparking eyes meeting his, she arranged the sword belt in her hands and pressed close, cheek against his shoulder, to reach around. He grinned over her slender shoulder at Norrington, who could barely restrain himself to an eye roll. The Governor was pale.

Elizabeth quickly retreated as far as he would let her and began to fasten the belt with trembling fingers.

"Easy on the goods, darling."

The belt rasped as it was pulled viciously tight. "You're despicable," she spat.

"Sticks and stones, love," he replied evenly. "I saved your life, you save mine, we're square." She went white; he whirled her around. Holding held her close with one arm loose over her shoulder, he felt her stiffen when he pressed the muzzle of his pistol to her jaw. He began to back them both away.

"Gentlemen!" he addressed the tightly wound pack stalking him; "m'lady," he murmured. His voice rose. "You will always remember this as the day that you almost caught ...Captain...Jack...Sparrow!" He lifted his arms and gave Elizabeth a brutal shove. With a cry, she careened right into the arms of the Commodore and her father. There she collapsed. The entire group of men was thrown off-balance. As they all shouted, flailed, and tried not to skewer one another on their bayonets, Jack Sparrow shoved the pistol into his belt, turned, and grasped the nearest rope.

The Marines were clattering, fumbling toward him, but Jack was kicking loose a wood belaying pin. He suddenly was yanked straight up into the air, his toes escaping a Marine's fingers by centimeters. As he shot upward, those below discovered the counterweight that was making his ascent possible, and they lunged to avoid the cannon-like mass of metal, which smashed down and through the quaking dock, sending up a salty fountain. Shouting, two unlucky marines tumbled into the gaping hole before they could catch themselves.

Jack reached the underside of a crane arm with a bump, level with the spars of the _Interceptor_'s main topgallant yard. He desperately grasped the nearest rope, jolting loose the lock on the crane's swivel mechanism, which caused the whole monstrosity to rotate at a quickening rate, ropes hissing.

Everyone below stared as Jack flew round and round, yelling, his body almost horizontal. The Governor, clutching Elizabeth, cried, "Now will you shoot him?"

"Open fire!" Norrington bellowed, and the Marines eagerly filled the air around Jack Sparrow with deadly pieces of lead. He yelled again in a panic, then he saw the second crane, which stood not far away from the first.

He swung like an ape to the second crane's arm, his feet slamming onto the arm as he let his rope go. The first crane still twirling behind, he teetered back and forth as bullets continued to scream past.

"On his heels!" Norrington bellowed. The Marines lowered their muskets and ran for the upper level of the dock.

Jack acted quickly to take advantage of this respite. He slid to the tower of his crane, pressed his wrists together, threw the resulting loop of manacle chain over another rope, and caught the loop as it swung around.

Then he shoved off.

He slid down the rope, soaring over the dock toward shore like a great pelican. The rope ended before the dock did and, releasing his chain loop, he hit the planks running. Behind, the Marines knelt together and resumed fire. Once ashore, Jack veered and ran up a sturdy bridge and past two traumatized pedestrians who ran with their arms over their heads. Boots pounding, arms flailing in a practiced manner, Jack repelled bullet after bullet with his manacles and managed to reach the other side of the bridge and cover.

The Marines ceased fire and charged after him.

Norrington and Gillette emerged on the upper level just in time to watch them leave through the wisps of musket smoke. Green eyes murderous, the Commodore snapped, "Gillette. Mr. Sparrow has a dawn appointment with the gallows." He turned on his second-in-command. "I would hate for him to miss it."

Gillette nodded to Murtogg and Mullroy, who ran off with him, leaving the Commodore to stand and glare.

Elizabeth sloshed up beside him, fuming. He glanced at her, and then focused on her face to keep from blushing. "Elizabeth," he managed, "are you–"

"Yes, I'm all right, I'm fine!" she exclaimed. "Go capture him!"

He hesitated for a breath, then hurried off. Elizabeth quietly watched him go. Her father came up behind her, winded. He draped his coat over her shoulders. "Here, dear," he said faintly, patting the coat, "you should wear this."

She shivered. Then she tore her eyes from the gathering fog and pulled the coat tightly about her. "Thank you, Father. And let that be the last of your fashion advice, please."

* * *

Port Royal was not called the 'wickedest city in the world' for nothing. Here, hooligans of every sort were a commonplace phenomenon; therefore, only the legendary ones caused any sort of stir. And Port Royal was definitely stirred up today. On this day, women chattered excitedly and locked their doors; men frowned and donned an extra dagger or two, and children brandished sticks in make-believe duels, arguing over who got to play the most clever of swashbucklers ever to stalk the Caribbean: Jack Sparrow.

For Jack Sparrow…_the_ Jack Sparrow was running around Port Royal. The word spread like wildfire.

So did angry Marines. As the hazy morning turned into afternoon, the glaringly red-clad men were everywhere, clattering about brusquely with their muskets. Their superiors waited at the fort with maps of the city, receiving report after report: Nothing found. Nothing found. Nothing found.

"Search up the stairs!" On the seedier side of town, a troop scrambled into a small alley and up the steps at the back, setting chickens and a mule protesting, passing a grimy man who was wringing a rag. "Find him men!" Their footsteps receded, leaving an uneasy street filled with only the chickens' indignant clucking.

Squashed between the gray doors of a barn and an elevated passage, a deep alcove held a life-sized blacksmith sculpture in its mossy shadow. One of the forgotten metal man's mighty arms brandished a sledgehammer at the ready, while his other hand held a narrow, pointed metal strip to an anvil.

With a soft ringing noise, the metal strip slipped out the back of the sculpture's loose fist, and Jack Sparrow peeked out past the blacksmith's dull brown arm, warily holding his sword up like a stick.

He boldly stepped into the light and nimbly descended the steps, only to freeze at the bottom and curse the limitless British troops as he stared at the troop trotting past the alley, flashing muskets held erect before them. In a rush, he turned on the conveniently placed barn doors beside him, shoved at a small pass-through door; he scrambled inside when it opened. Just as quickly, he shut it.

A worn sign hung motionless over the doors. On it was painted an anvil, tongs and hammer, all above the lettering J. Brown.

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What do you think? 


	9. Shall We Dance?

**Author's note: **Major swordfighting time! To avoid confusion: "Moke" is an old word for donkey that I bumbled upon in a thesarus. Thank you to meowbooks for the very thoughtful reviews! If you're looking for insight into the POTC characters with a perfect mixture of humor and delicious angst, read her fanfic Look Around. You'll be glad you did!

A huge THANK YOU goes to jedipati for betaing this chapter! I'm not really sure how I managed without a beta before this.

Pirates of the Caribbean belongs to Disney!

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_Whose addlepated abstraction was this? Hmm...modestly sized room that narrows to a pointless back door, dust, dust, dust…donkey. Or mule? Burro? Jennet? Moke? _

This had to have been a barn. Though the place smelled reminiscent of animals, its only barn-like inhabitant was the donkey/mule/burro/jennet/moke. It stood sleeping in a shallow, round pit, harnessed to an elaborate bellows. Jack's eyes followed the bellows back to a furnace. Then he saw the cart wheels stashed in a corner, and an iron gate neatly stowed against a wall.

_Aha an' eureka!_ This was a seemingly deserted metal smith's shop. If Jack had had a lucky talisman on his person, he would have kissed it, but since he considered himself a lucky talisman, he refrained and simply strode down a long, flat cart into the shop. In the breathless light he strode up to the furnace. Surrounded by a sea of tidy tools, it jutted from the wall at an angle, a square, purposeful piece of stone art.

The metal strips lying on the hearth did not escape Jack's attention. Standing beside a worn anvil, he glanced around, the heat from the crackling furnace warming his lean cheek. Again, the shop _seemed_ to be abandoned.

Jack slapped his brown hat onto the counter with renewed hurry. He pulled free a small sledge from a leather loop nailed to the side of the workbench.

_Clonk_–

A bottle's hollow impact on straw. Jack Sparrow whirled to the right, his black-lined eyes huge.

In the dim corner of the shop, a stocky man wearing a worn leather apron sprawled on three barrels. The fallen bottle lay near his feet, empty.

Jack's eyes lingered on the bottle. _Tsk, the rum's gone. __Tragic ain't it, mate? I know the feeling…_

Still holding the sledge, he carefully approached the curly-bearded man and discovered the other man was snoring softly. Frowning ponderously, Jack quickly prodded the man's chest with two fingers. He shot back as the man mumbled. Then the snoring resumed. Jack straightened and turned away.

He wheeled and bellowed, "Whoa!" and then jumped back warily, manacles clinking, to see what would happen.

The drunk's snoring never wavered. _Just as I thought_.

Jack retreated. He bent over the large anvil, placing his hands–one holding the sledge–on either side, so his chain was stretched over the anvil's surface. He braced himself and focused.

The first blow grazed the chain with a clang. He gathered his concentration and struck again. Once, twice, thrice, four times, the sledgehammer rang with mocking uselessness. Jack threw it onto the anvil and straightened, his teeth bared as he tugged at the untouched chain.

Then his eyes lifted, caught, and brightened with possibility…then trailed to the sleeping donkey.

He turned and grabbed the nearest object projecting from the hearth and came up with an evil hook that glowed brilliant orange. His gaze, heavily lidded, slid to the donkey once more.

There was no shallow pit beneath the second bellows gear, but its shaft still had four nasty spokes for a harness. Each was shin height and long as a lance, waiting to give somebody a nasty trip. Jack carefully stepped past these. Countless leather loops laden with mostly sledgehammers hung from the motionless gears' undersides, waiting to conk one over the head. He ducked under those.

A few seconds later, the unsuspecting jennet's head jerked up and it gave an agonized cry as a sizzling sound filled the air. It lunged into a brisk stride, and a shaking rumble grew as the gears slowly began to rotate and the bellows blow. Jack inspected the flaming hair on his iron, then coolly whirled it around and put it away.

The iron taken care of, Jack threw his chain over one of the large gear's giant cogs. On tiptoe, he slowly moved with it toward its meshing point with a smaller gear, and in only seconds, a gratifying pop sounded as the heavy cogs of both gears snapped the chain without pause. Jack drew away, exuberantly taking in his freedom.

Past his sore wrists, a shadow had appeared at the door. Jack's eyes focused on the door just as the pass-through door's lock lifted–

* * *

Will Turner had taken the long way home. He had needed the time to sort his mind out. 

But just when he could finally live with himself, Billy Stover had run up and blurted that a pirate trying to escape the law had almost killed Elizabeth Swann. '_The Commodore found her lying in a very compromised position...she was wearing almost nothin' …the brute put a gun to her head_...'

Will did not have a naturally vicious character. He liked donkeys and chickens and tried to make everyone happy. But in that moment of consuming, white-hot rage, he had felt he could stab someone through the heart, and watch the red, red blood come. He had _wanted_ to.

And he still did. There were no words to describe his horror, his need to avenge the young woman he had idolized ever since she had so selflessly promised to watch over him. What he felt was deep as marrow, blacker than shadows deepened by fear, and stickier than the hottest pitch.

After stalking a while in a haze of fury, he managed to reason himself into a boil. He had a smithy to maintain. And Elizabeth's world was on a higher plane than his was. He could stand, look up, and wish to touch her universe, but until he could fly, he would just have to grit his teeth and make his plane of existence all he could.

It felt like dying.

Now, he rolled his shoulders to loosen them as he maneuvered the door of the shop open. The welcome thought of changing his clothes was a tiny sunrise on a midnight horizon.

He heard a familiar rumble as he opened the door. _Mellie?_ He stepped into the shop, gazing perplexed at the circling donkey as he slowly latched the door. He stepped to the edge of the ledge looked the shop over.

Empty.

He hesitated. He had worked in this place since he was a sprout of a boy and knew how normal felt. Normal was not what he was feeling now. Still, with this day's unsettling events, why should a mule trying to get some exercise seem strange?

He vaulted smoothly off the step and hurried to the marching animal's side. He caught her and stroked her forehead and nose. She keened fuzzily, long-lashed eyes very downcast.

With one last pat, Will straightened. _Focus. Must finish the hinges. But get this blasted cravat off me first…_ He strode into the shop, tugging at his neck cloth, shrugging off his overcoat with relief. Loosening the upper buttons of his waistcoat, he stopped when he saw Mr. Brown. He had hoped his master would have revived and gone into the house. Instead, Mr. Brown just snored. "Right where I left you," Will smiled bitterly, then moved to the furnace to put the finishing touches on Mr. Harrison's hinges.

A small sledge lay on the anvil. He frowned at it, tossing his coat onto the counter. "Not where I left you."

Then he saw a worn brown hat on his workbench and uneasily reached for it. Something struck the back of his hand. _A sword_. Heart in his throat, he jumped back.

A delicately featured man faced him, blade and ready, though his stance was wobbly and his eyes childishly wide. A wide strip of faintly patterned red fabric circled his head, and the beads in his hair clicked as he advanced in the wake of Will's slow retreat.

Will felt the blood in his veins slow as realization dawned. Then his blood was rushing faster than ever before. Satisfaction and a ferocious need to harm twisted into a snake that bit away every distraction and reduced him to a single thought, a spyglass that focused so intensely, he could see every pore on the pirate's nose; could hear every secretive crunch of straw. It was frightening. It was beyond exhilarating.

_You will pay._

"You're the one they're hunting." He glared. "The _pirate_."

Jack Sparrow frowned; peered in a baffled manner. "You seem somewhat familiar. Have I threatened you before?"

"I make a point of avoiding familiarity with pirates." Will's voice was cold enough to freeze brine.

"Ah." The frown loosened as the pirate tilted his head back. He lowered his sword. "Well. It would be a shame to put a black mark on your record." He stepped back and politely dipped, "So if you'll excuse me . . ." He turned to retrieve his hat.

Will lunged and grabbed a sword from the nearest rack nearest. He pointed the blade at Jack, who stopped and wheeled. This pirate's swaying manner really was unnerving.

"D'you think this's wise, boy?" His eyes looked steadily to Will's. "Crossing blades with a pirate?"

Will pointed his sword straight at his face, wrist at an angle that displayed experience. "You threatened Miss Swann."

Will's obvious training had not escaped Jack's attention, but it was with confidence the hunted pirate raised his sword and placed it against Will's. It grated as, fluidly, he slid it forward, back. Will tensed warily. Jack smiled. "Only a little."

Quiet like a bowstring settled. Then Jack abruptly attacked Will, testing, and Will retreated, parrying each strike with angry crispness. The harsh ring of the blades faded as the pirate paused and Will waited.

Again Jack lunged at Will, upping his offensive. Will parried, again retreating; again flawlessly repelling each of Jack's attempts. Then, just when Will was about to back into the high step he slipped through Jack's guard in a neat riposte; the pirate scrambled to avoid his whistling blade.

Having caught the surprise in Jack's eyes, Will smugly pointed his blade at Jack's face again. Then it was his turn to attack, and he threw himself into his effort with energy. Jack gave ground steadily, warier now, carefully parrying Will's lightning attempts. Then Jack was about to hit the counter and Will gave a vicious thrust. Jack slipped aside, trapped Will's blade; they shoved off, disengaged.

The clatter off their blades melted into the straw as they shifted and stared.

"You know what you're doing, I'll give y'that," the pirate said with his loose-jawed accent. "Excellent form." A quiet singing of metal rang out as their blades brushed lightly. "But how's your footwork?" Jack squinted, then sidestepped to the right in a circle; Will mirrored him.

"If I step here," Jack stepped further, their blades crashed _clang-clang-clang-clang_, they stopped, their extended blades crossed, "very good."

Jack's gaze flicked over Will's shoulder to the front door. Will watched him with marble eyes. Mellie had stopped and watched also, her furry ears laid back.

"And now I step again." Jack danced around Will, and Will smoothly, delicately mirrored him. Jack halted; a pause swayed into existence, and they were exactly opposite their first positions. Jack was satisfied. He knew that in minutes, this boy would only be an unnerving memory with a sore ego. He smiled despite the painful knowledge that he was going to have to leave his dear hat behind.

The boy waited; Jack lunged suddenly, hitting violently–the lad parried and jumped back toward the furnace. Jack pulled back, still smiling. "_Ta_."

Will watched in puzzlement as the other sheathed his sword and darted away. The pirate's hands slapped the high step as he clambered onto it and stepped to the front door.

For an instant, Will was shocked, baffled, and disappointed; for an instant, Will just stared, utterly flummoxed. And then–_coward!_–a wave of rage changed every muscle in his body to liquid stone and before he knew what he was doing he had hurled his sword the length of the shop. It slammed into the door inches from Jack's head, above the latch that he'd begun to lift. There it stuck, wobbling and humming.

_Bugger_. Jack stared at it with huge eyes, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. He then looked to Will, who didn't move.

Jack's eyes returned to the sword and he silenced it with one hand. With both hands he grasped the handle–it was made too well to have been crafted by a drunk–and yanked up on it.

It didn't budge; the entire door lurched instead. He paused to wonder why things like this always seemed to happen to him, then wrenched again.

Will's expression was one of great satisfaction as he watched the pirate jerk again, again, then jump wildly up and down in a great effort that probably loosened the door hinges, but did nothing else.

The world was indeed a cruel place. Jack Sparrow gave up. Leaning back, he fixed Will in a baleful gaze. "That is a wonderful trick." He stepped back down the ramp like a cat. "Except once again," he pointed, "you are between me an' my way out."

Will felt naked without a blade in his hand, but he edged back to position himself more thoroughly in the maggot's way - _This any better?_

Jack marched up to Will, drawing his sword. "And now, you have no weapon." He smiled grimly.

Will froze. Then he turned and grabbed a sword from the hearth. He brandished it at the pirate, whose grin faded as his eyes fell on the orange-hot blade. Someone else saw the burning metal as well: Mellie brayed and lurched forward, starting the gears grumbling again.

_Buggerbuggerbuggerbugger!_Jack darted around the nearest post in a wild attempt to slip past Will; it was futile: he almost impaled himself on Will's ready sword, barely deflecting–_CLANG_–barely catching himself. As sparks flew, Jack was careening back the way he had come. The unnaturally skilled youth whirled to again block him and they moved away from the shaft, fighting in earnest.

Will thrust fiercely. Hot with anger, Jack slipped aside and deflected with lightning speed, then swiped at Will's unprotected face; Will leaped back and Jack's strike bounced off the post, biting into the gray wood. Jack blurred forward to take advantage of Will's unbalance but the glowing blade flew up to parry his strike. Jack pressed in wildly, forcing Will's own glowing blade toward Will's face...Will heaved him off and Jack stumbled back into the gear shaft.

Will leaped forward, thrust, but the pirate recovered in the blink of an eye. He tangled Will's blade in the loose chain of his right manacle and deftly twisted. Shocked, Will did not have the thought to keep a hold on his blade and Jack sent it flying. As the sword clattered to the floor Jack struck at Will, who was already ducking away. Jack's sword smacked the post again; Will darted around the second, mule-less shaft, somersaulting smoothly over one of the spokes before coming to his feet under the rumbling gear.

Jack knew he had his opponent in a corner. Wall and mule pit would keep the youth at bay, unless he managed to slip out, and then _dear me, it could become a ring 'round th' rosy_. Jack charged straight to the rotating shaft, leaping onto a spoke. Hugging the shaft with one arm, he peered around and threw a strike at Will.

He wasn't expecting Will to parry, because Will was not supposed to have a sword. But Will did, and Jack finally noted the rack of swords that rested under his nose. The place was full of swords. "Who makes all these?" The shaft was rotating him closer to Will, who was kindly and idiotically remaining where he was...a simple leap…pin him to the wall like a bug–

Will struck savagely and lunged away. Jack bounced onto the dirt in pursuit, but barely had time to turn and block Will's blade. Jack almost growled as he found himself hemmed into the corner by Will, who had copied him: perched on a spoke, hugging the shaft, striking with free arm.

"I do!" Will snapped. Jack edged to the right, Will twisted around to force Jack back. "And I practice with them–" he flinched behind the shaft to avoid being brained by the sledgehammer Jack hurled and then popped out sword-first " –three hours a day!" Now he was being rotated toward Jack, who had very helpfully remained where he was; Will tensed, hoping–

Enraged that the youth would actually think he would be so stupid, Jack twisted, seized another sledgehammer, and hurled it at Will, who was just then lunging down in attack. Will avoided a braining for the second time, but Jack had time to escape. The pirate happily resumed his position on the shaft, leaning around to keep Will in the corner. Will quickly bounced over a spoke, and faced Jack. _Clang-scree–_

"You need to find yourself a girl, mate," Jack grinned, then struck at the young man, blade whistling. Will ducked, Jack's sword dully smacked the shaft, Will immediately straightened and–_clang_–he caught Jack's blade and gave it an extra shove to unbalance the pirate. Then he sliced at the grimy hand that clutched the shaft, but Jack threw himself backward and the shock of wood traveled up Will's arm.

Jack, having landed perfectly, was already turning to grab a third sledgehammer–they really were coming in handy–and Will, flying over a spoke as he hurtled out of the corner, grabbed a second sword.

Will's swords clashed with the pirate's single blade. Retreating from the gear and spokes, Jack kept Will at bay for the seconds it took to draw back the sledgehammer; Will grunted, ducked, and the sledgehammer soared over his head and clanged to the floor. By this time, Will had had about enough of Jack's dirty fighting; he surged back and threw himself at the pirate in a fury, blades whirling like scythes.

Jack repelled him with determination, tangling, pressing close, and forcing their blades up above their heads. "Or," Jack said, and Will paused. They strained against each other, panting, gazing at each other's sweat-sheened faces between loose sleeves.

"Perhaps the reason you practice three hours a day is that you already found one," Jack slyly gazed into the youth's narrowing eyes, "and are otherwise incapable of wooing said strumpet." He grimaced and looked Will over. "You're not a eunuch, are you?"

"I practice three hours a day so that when I meet a pirate," Will snapped, "I can kill him!"

"Ahh!" Jack's eyes went wide and goading; he disengaged. Will swiped ferociously, but Jack was already dancing out of reach, bouncing onto the cart ramp, leading Will on. Will leaped onto the low end of the cart and the impact broke the haphazard pile of wood that had kept the cart stationary. The cart lurched, and Jack's end slipped off the step where it had been braced. Now on a makeshift teeter-totter, the two antagonists fought to keep their respective balances.

This was not what he had planned, but perhaps he'd have better luck–Jack leaned forward and struck at Will, who barely parried, bringing both his swords to bear. Will stabbed back at the pirate, who, wobbling, knocked the attempt aside. They proceeded to fight with desperate abandon, staggering as they struck, parried, stabbed and dodged.

Will stabbed at the teetering pirate's wrist. The tip of his blade brushed the chain of the pirate's manacle; Will twirled it, trapping the chain around the sword. He then shoved the sword straight up into a rafter. The tangled chain of the pirate's manacle slid down and caught the handle of Will's sword, hopelessly tight.

Captain Jack Sparrow's left hand was now out of commission.

Jack was shocked at first, but he got over it after a few unavailing yanks. He used his spurt of rage to power a slash at the youth's face.

Will barely escaped a terrible scar; he'd expected the pirate to give up. Indignant, he straightened to keep his balance, then flinched as the pirate's sword whistled past again. Jack stomped on one of the cart's wide planks and got lucky; the plank flipped right up and smacked Will in the face. Will slammed on his back on the floor.

After some seconds, he lifted his head and shook his vision clear. He had to admire the pirate's abdominal strength: pirate had curled himself upside down. Placing his feet on the rafter on either side of Will's stuck sword, he was now pushing with his legs. And he still was managing to keep a hold on his own sword!

Will stood up, nobly ignoring his swelling nose as he held his sword ready. He paused for an amused second then leaped back onto the cart.

Jack heard Will, and push-pulled again with all his might. That got him a jerk and a _squeak_. His eyes went big as the rafter groaned, and then he was falling free. Down he whammed, back-first onto his end of the cart. The other end flew up and so did stunned Will, straight into the rafters. Jack somersaulted off the cart and fetched up against the base of the high step. He regained his bearings, pulled himself up, and then stepped cautiously back onto the cart.

He gazed about him, and then his dark eyes slid up. He grinned.

A sunlit Will, perched on a rafter, grinned back and slashed a taut rope with his sword. Jack's glee abandoned him as two large and netted barrels plummeted to the opposite end of the cart in a rush of ropes. There was a terrific thud, and then he, too, was flying.

Arms blindly extended, he managed to catch himself painfully on a rafter. Huffing, the fabric against his forehead damp, he looked about. Two wide beams a yard apart were placed down the space before him and Will stood on the left one, waiting like a vengeful spirit.

_Buggery little inexperienced whelp! _Rapidly Jack pulled himself up and vaulted easily onto the beam without Will on it. Will leaped right, across to face Jack, but Jack hopped to the beam Will had just vacated. Again Will jumped and the pirate again evaded him, jumping to the right.

Disgusted, Will feinted toward Jack's beam, and Jack promptly leaped across...to face Will, who straightened, pleased to have finally maneuvered the pirate, instead of the other way around. But Jack's insane grin caused him to doubt. When the pirate's face became too surprised and fearful at seeing Will, Will was blinded again with rage. He leaped forward and the intensity of the fight escalated to its highest level yet.

Jack barely had time to be amused, but he was now aware of Will's power and Will found himself being pressed back. Swiftly, he pulled away and jumped to the other beam, whacking at the pirate as he did. Grimly, Jack checked his inertia, instinctively deflected the blow, and popped onto Will's beam, bracing himself as Will twirled about and carefully charged.

Again, they faced off, and for a nerve breaking time they were evenly matched, but Will gained an instant of advantage and knocked the pirate's blade away. It clanged to the floor below, and now Will was grinning, sword pointed. Dismayed, Jack turned and bent to grasp his end of the beam, beginning to swing down in a desperate bid for escape.

_Not again_–Will was already moving. Easily as an acrobat, he threw himself into the open space headfirst, caught and swung off a rafter with his legs and somersaulted to land on his feet...between Jack and the front door, just as the pirate's boots landed on the counter beside the hearth.

They stared at each other. Jack turned, reaching–

_No!_ Will rushed forward and–

–was too slow. Jack turned the nozzle of a limp bag on Will, and the moving bellows enshrouded him in a suffocating, stinging cloud of sand and dirt.

Blinded, Will reeled, his hands up to shield his face. Jack kicked the sword from his hand then dropped the bag and leaped to the floor. Will heard the pirate's boots slap the dirt; he stumbled against the counter and frantically wiped his eyes. He forced them open, at the same time grabbing from the counter a pair of heavy tongs. Unsteady, he held the tongs up, then froze. His brown face fell when saw the pistol Jack aimed for his head. "You cheated."

Jack raised his eyebrows impatiently. "Pirate."

A sudden shouting sounded from the jammed front door. Jack glanced over his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of red uniforms between the loose planks of the wall. Will scrambled to place himself between the pirate and the back door. Jack followed, pointed pistol steady.

"Move away," ordered Jack.

"No." Will glanced at the front door. It still held fast against the soldier's pounding.

"Please move!"

"No! I cannot just step away and let you escape."

Of all the citizens of Port Royal he had to encounter, this fanatically patriotic and agile boy had to be the one. And they _would_ meet in a barn full of swords, probably the only one in the whole bloody island! Jack clenched his teeth. "This shot," he cocked the pistol, "is not meant for you."

Will had been staring at the pistol muzzle; he now looked at the pirate's face, startled at the unsteadiness of Jack's voice.

Glass shattered and sprayed out around the pirate's head. Staring, gun extended, he toppled forward without a sound. His fall revealed filthy Mr. Brown, who had decided to wake up after sleeping through the entire racket. He held up the broken neck of his bottle, giving Will a groggy smile.

Will found he had nothing to say.

The Marines, yelling, finally broke through the door. They flooded the shop, rushing past poor Mellie, who stopped to watch them. In seconds, many bayonets threatened Jack Sparrow, who looked extremely nonthreatening face down on the floor.

Then the Marines' commanding officer, pistol at the ready, strode up into the circle. Jostled on either side by Marines, Will looked up. _Of course, it's Norrington._ His eyes flicked to the scabbard at the officer's hip. _And my sword. Right. _

Norrington looked down his nose at Jack before turning to the potato of a man who stood stinking beside him. "Excellent work, Mr. Brown. You've assisted in the capture of a dangerous fugitive."

"Just doing my civic duty, sir." Voice thick, Mr. Brown gazed up at the Commodore with heavily lidded eyes.

Will's brows lifted and he looked away, feeling–not for the first time that day–the profound unfairness of the world.

"Well." The Commodore's voice was haughtily smug. "I trust that you will all remember this as the day that Captain Jack Sparrow _almost_ escaped. Take him away."

* * *

The boy had fought with impressive skill, yes, but just a touch of it. 

Really well, the boy had fought, better than he should have been able to. Did all young apprentices fight like that now? What a wearisome prospect.

Deep in Fort Charles, Captain Jack Sparrow slouched in his cell and nursed his sore ego, tri-cornered hat pulled down over his eyes. The night air flowing down over him and some flickering candles from a high, barred window was thick with moisture.

A slender, enticing whistle pierced the gloom of the prison. "Smell it, boy," rasped a man's voice; someone snapped his fingers, "smell it, love."

"Come'ere, boy," said a much raspier voice, a desperate voice.

"Want a nice, juicy bone?"

"Come'ere, boy!" said the desperate voice. "Come'ere, boy!" More whistling, more snapping fingers.

Jack stirred. "You can keep doing that forever; the dog is never going to move."

A man holding a bone through the bars of his cell turned and looked at Jack. "Oh," he sneered, "excuse us if we haven't resigned ourselves to the gallows just yet!"

Jack glanced past the four other men who huddled with Bone Man at the front of the cell, and saw the scruffy mutt who sat out of their reach, a twinkle in its eyes and a key ring in mouth.

It was just too preposterously, amusingly pitiable. With a grin, Jack turned away and closed his eyes.

* * *

Review and make part of this chapter your own!! 


	10. Things That Go Bump in the Night

Many, many, many thanks to jedipati for the beta work!

Also, thank you to love2rite for her review. love2rite has the sweetest oneshot called _I'm Not That Girl_, about a silent admirer of Will Turner. An amazing perspective that'll hit you right in the heart.

Disclaimer: I still don't own POTC. :) Also, I do not own Gulliver's Travels

_ Having therefore consulted with my Wife, and some of my Acquaintance, I determined to go again to Sea. I was Surgeon successively in two Ships, and made several Voyages, for six Years, to the East and West-Indies, by which I got some Addition to my Fortune. My Hours of Leisure I spent in reading the best Authors, ancient and modern, being always provided with a good Number of Books ; and when I was ashore, in observing the Manners and Dispositions of the People, well as learning their Language, wherein I had a great Facility by the Strength of my Memory. _

_The last of these Voyages not proving very fortunate, I grew weary of the Sea, and intended to stay at home with my Wife and Family. _

Elizabeth looked up from her page, realizing _Gulliver's Travels_ was not going to soothe her at all.

…_intended to stay at home…with my Wife and Family._

Elizabeth Swann, propped up by pillows and deeply covered by blankets, thought of marrying a commodore in His Majesty's Royal Navy, and how this would shape her life.

She would see him off again and again, each time turning her back on the sea and stepping into the dim monotony of her house, the heavy wood door thudding shut behind her. Then, probably be raising children, she would wait for her valiant husband to return and boast of all his adventures at sea.

Day after day after day.

Desperation bubbled in her chest. There was something wrong with her: she was supposed to _want_ this kind of life, and she did not. Not only did she find it distasteful; she found it frightening. What had those pirate books, so passionately read in her young years, done to her?

Elizabeth swallowed gingerly, and felt a flash of anger. Thanks to the nerves of an upstanding British officer, her throat was sore from brine. Thanks to the ambitions of a very un-upstanding scoundrel, her throat was sore from a chain.

Elizabeth bent her head toward her book. She kept her mouth closed, but inside, she was wailing. _This is not the way it's supposed to be!_

Feet away, dark-haired Estrella scooped glowing coals into a bedwarmer. The coals sizzled softly to themselves as the maid lifted the comforters at the end of Elizabeth's bed and slipped the bedwarmer between the sheets.

"There you go, miss." Estrella moved up the bedside toward Elizabeth, straightening the blankets with worn hands. The light from the fireplace warmed her gentle face and the white cap that framed it. "It was a difficult day for you, I'm sure."

"Hmm." Elizabeth looked up. "I suspected Commodore Norrington would propose, but ...I must admit, I wasn't entirely prepared for it."

"Well, I meant you being threatened by that pirate," Estrella quietly eyed her mistress's tired face. "Sounds terrifying."

"Oh. Yes. It was terrifying."

"But, the Commodore proposed!" Estrella turned to uselessly straighten the nightstand. "Fancy that. Now that's a fine match, miss, if it's not too bold to say."

Elizabeth's smile stiffened. "It is a smart match." She bit her lip. "He's a fine man. He's what any woman should dream of marrying." Her voice shrank; her eyes fell to her book again.

The fire chatted.

"Well, that Will Turner," Estrella evenly met Elizabeth's startled gaze; "he's a fine man, too."

"That is too bold."

"Beggin' your pardon, miss. It was not my place." Estrella made a meek exit.

As her bedroom door closed, Elizabeth bit her lower lip again. She pondered Will Turner as she pulled the medallion from its new place beneath her nightgown.

The room seemed to shudder, and Elizabeth froze.

But it had only been the sudden flutter of lamplight. She stared at her wavering lamp, aware of the absence of any breeze. She fingered the warm medallion, then gripped it in her fist.

The lamp's flame died completely and the fear, the feel of invasion, was back in a suffocating wave. She sat in the darkness, unable to move, unable to breathe, as the hair on the back of her neck shivered upward.

* * *

Will Turner, unable to get some last sand-grits out of his eyes, had too much to think about, so he didn't give himself the chance to think at all. He worked at the blacksmith's shop instead, by light of candles and furnace. 

_Clang-clang-clang- _he pounded flat the glowing end of a metal rod, existing inside the metal's ringing rhythm until–

He paused. Something had thudded outside, and for some reason, adrenaline was surging into his weary muscles; his body was ready for fight or flight. He felt like he was being watched.

Down went his hammer; he moved swiftly to the shop's back window. He opened it and stuck his head out into cold, soupy air. Down and up the dead-dark alley he looked, turning just in time to see a cat streak behind a pile of crates.

He breathed deeply. His body turned frigid as the hair on the back of his neck and arms shuddered upright.

Never in his entire life had he felt a simple night imbued with such malice.

* * *

_Women are as changeable as the sea_. 

The saying had never struck home for Commodore Norrington as solidly as it did now.

Standing between himself and that scurvy Sparrow...Elizabeth had been so confident in herself, so disappointed in him. She had not been the meek young woman who had stolen his words away earlier, no; she herself had rippled, changing into a creature who would stand up to him for what she believed. He had not expected it.

Norrington loved the sea. He loved its dance of moods and the delicate skill it took to navigate them. So, he was not surprised that Elizabeth's show of raw defiance had opened his heart further to her. He knew, though, that he _would_ have to have a good measure of submission from her. She had to understand the need for this, for she knew how naïve she was. Sparrow had taught her that, and very thoroughly. With satisfaction Norrington looked down into the courtyard where a new gallows waited. Sparrow would be well thanked for his pedagogic endeavors.

Norrington's hands clutched each other behind his back. If only he could be sure that Elizabeth was his.

"Has my daughter given you an answer yet?" Governor Swann seemed to read his mind. He walked with Norrington along the ramparts of Fort Charles, a military island in a sea of inky mists.

"No. She hasn't."

They strolled past shining wet cannons that peered through embrasures of stone.

"Well, she has had a very trying day," said Swann, his voice both encouraging and kindly defensive. The Commodore smiled, then slowed and let the Governor walk ahead.

A breeze oozed past Swann. "Ghastly weather, don't you think?"

"Bleak." Commodore Norrington's voice matched his words, "Very bleak."

_Thud. Thud-thud._ A distant heartbeat. The Governor stopped to look around. "What's that?"

_Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud_. Then there came a faint dire whistling. Norrington was stunned. _It can't be! _But he threw himself at the Governor anyway, shouting, "Cannon fire!"

Both men sprawled against the low wall as a scream went over their heads. With a terrific bang it smashed the wall where they had stood seconds before. A wave of heat lunged across their faces and clumps of tan stone tumbled in every direction; more explosions could be heard all up and down the length of the fort. Norrington scrambled up, heart pounding. "Return fire!"

* * *

'Irregular' was too tame a word for the situation that rapidly unfolded itself over the entire harbor. More plausible were the words 'ludicrous' and 'insane.' This was because nobody in his or her right mind attacked _the _Port Royal. You could shake your fist at Port Royal. You could even thumb your nose. But an attack…everyone knew that, unless you had an armada of warships and then some, attacking Port Royal simply Wasn't Done. 

Mostly because it was the equivalent of suicide.

No one really believed what he or she heard until the cannonballs emerged howling from the mists and tore into Port Royal's waterfront. Structures from Fort Charles to Fort Carlisle were burning in minutes, and then the sleeping part of Port Royal truly awoke with a panicked wail. Citizens, staggering from sleep and shock, rushed to save belongings and each other. It was worst at the waterfront, where men trying to save the boats that were their livelihoods were tossed this way and that like so many pieces of straw. The streets boiled with families and visitors dodging pieces of chimney and roof; trampling each other. A thousand desperate mouths shouted the question: who is out there?

Then, longboats materialized from behind the scrim of fog. When the few survivors at the waterfront saw the creatures that paddled the black vessels toward shore, precious fishing boats and nets were heedlessly abandoned as their owners fled, spreading, on a wave of terror the most dreaded word in the Caribbean–

* * *

The thumping cannons roused Jack Sparrow his sleepy lounge. "I know those guns." He pulled himself up on a stone ledge to peer out his barred window. 

What he saw made his breath quicken.

He had a smashing view of the harbor, which was being, well, smashed by the cannons of a ship floating in the center of the bay, a ship whose ink form was suggested every so often by the flashes from her sides. _BOOM-boomboom_–sound tumbled about the port's circled arms; a cannonball whizzed and slammed into the fort only yards from Jack's window, sending a shower of stone down into the dark. The fort's cannons were silent.

Jack Sparrow smiled. "It's the _Pearl_." The word slid from his lips like a prayer.

Bone Man came up to the bars and clutched them. "The _Black Pearl_?" His low voice quavered, "I've heard stories. She's been preyin' on ships and settlements for near ten years." He glanced at his saucer-eyed cellmates. "Never leaves any survivors."

"No survivors?" Jack turned with his eyebrows up, his dark gaze glinting. "Then where do the stories come from, I wonder?"

* * *

The creatures spawned from the _Black Pearl_'s hellish hold set foot on land. Leaving their fog-shrouded boats behind they strode into Port Royal, yelling like crazed animals. Vile, they were, and dirty, greasy, with tattoos and earrings anywhere and everywhere, with rolling eyes, bulging muscles, long hair, and lean faces that knew nothing other than barbarian glee and lust for destruction. 

Pirates.

"Watchit, Ragetti, you almost stabbed me!" A short pirate, bald on top with a ring of stringy hair sprouting about his head, glared with thickly yellowed eyes at his companion.

"Sorry, Pintel, but me eye was a'scratchin', and I'm tryin' to fix it." This one was tall and emaciated, with a gaping eye socket in a knife-like face beneath relatively short strands of chopped hair. He was cutting at something with a small dagger, biting his tongue.

"At a time like this!" Pintel exclaimed. His hairy chest and extensive belly exposed by a too-small coat. "You would!"

"Jus' a minute, Pintel. Please, don't go on without me. Just a lil' mor-"

"Hurry!" Pintel elbowed Ragetti.

"Aagh! You ruined me fix job!" Ragetti scowled.

Pintel rolled his eyes. "Addlepate. We've a town t' plunder, and everybody else is getting the best stuff first! See, there goes Jacoby, and he's got legs only half as long as us!" He pointed with one monstrous fingernail at toward the running figure of a small, bearded pirate who brandished grenades in both hands.

Ragetti looked. "Oh."

"_Oh_. Idiot. Come on!"

Ragetti's blew on the round object and shoved it into his gaping right eye socket. A squeaking noise rang out as the muscles of the socket moved the dull wood eyeball into position.

Pintel grimaced, but rallied to return Ragetti's grin, and they ran after the others.

* * *

"Come on, Mellie. Come _on_!" Terrible sounds from the street filled Will's ears and a drop of sweat trickled down his temple as he pulled the little mule forward. Legs stiff, she made a half-hearted attempt at hopping out of her pit and ended up with her knees on the pit's lip. Braying, she almost fell back, but Will tightened his fists about her halter and hauled her up. She hopped with her hind legs and came out of the pit like a newborn filly, legs going every which way. Will released her halter and rolled clear. Coming to his feet, he saw Mrs. Brown steadying Mellie. Though resolute, the woman's face was white with fear. 

"But what about you?" she demanded.

Mr. Kempe strode up, looking formidable with two meat cleavers stuck in his belt. "We must go now or not at all."

Will nodded. A hand seized his arm. He turned to look into Mrs. Brown's pale eyes. "_What about you_?" she repeated.

"I'm going to look for Mr. Brown…help as much as I can." Will grasped her hand and curled her callused fingers around Mellie's halter. "I'll meet you at the fort." He gave Mr. Kempe a quick nod, and the large man drew Mrs. Brown and Mellie out the back door of the shop.

Will didn't see Mrs. Brown's resolution crumple as she looked over her shoulder at the closest thing she had to a son. He was already hurdling toward the racks where he kept his best hatchets, scooping up a sword as he went. By the time Mr. Kempe was leading a tearful Mrs. Brown and Katrien along a back alley, Will had burst out the front door into the street.

* * *

Fire. 

Fire was on pirate Jacoby's mind as he ran alongside a shop. Smoke from the incense in his long beard filled his nostrils and burnished his mind to a hot numbness that was only broken up when he did this–

An armed grenade he yanked from his bandoleer flew through one pretty golden window. The cry of shattered glass washed over his explosion-dulled ears.

And this–

Another window crumpled.

And this–

Shards flew.

Then the pretty windows ended. Anticipation roared through Jacoby's mind as he kept running, his eyes fastening on a woman in her nightdress, also running. He cackled and charged after her, waiting, waiting..._BANG–_

The shop exploded behind him. Exhilarated, he clattered down some steps in pursuit of the form beneath the billowing nightgown–

A blade slammed into his spine. The shock of the impact drew a cry from him as he fell on his face, hands instinctively curling. He knew when someone yanked the blade from his back, but he never felt a thing.

Will Turner, blood hot, grasped his retrieved hatchet and ran into the hazy confusion. Men and women and children ran blindly now for the fort, every one for him or herself. The pirates laughed and slashed and shot without regard for age or gender. He ran against the flow, determined to reach the taverns and Mr. Brown.

It was hard to keep his head clear; he had never faced such violence since pirates attacked his ship, the _Seeker_, from England so many years ago. Sickened, he fought memories as he watched his body employ every move drilled into it, becoming a killing machine.

A pirate jumped into his path; sword whistling, Will deflected the attack. He gasped when he saw the pirate's face, for he'd seen this face before…leering above him as a huge hand grasped his twelve year-old throat. Teeth gritted, Will viciously stabbed the pirate in the belly then ran on, unable to watch the pirate curl to the cobbles.

He dodged a woman running with a bawling toddler in her arms, and for a moment pressed himself to a wall. His eyes scoured the street for any Marines, anywhere. His eyes found none. Desperation and betrayal tightened his throat. _Where are they? Quaking in their fort and watching this slaughter? _

Norrington ducked as a cannonball shrieked over his head, swearing as his burning eyes followed the projectile's path straight to the gallows.

The gallows shattered. Flaming wood bloomed in all directions, scattering the harried troops trying to assemble and defend the fort's doors, which shook under the pirates' assault. Many refugees had been herded into the fort's halls, but many more were trapped outside between the closed gate and the attacking pirates. Norrington knew because he could hear them screaming.

He had never faced such a quandary. The doors could not be opened to let troops out until the troops could make a stand against the pirates. Distress flares had gone up to appeal to Forts Carlisle and Charles, but everyone knew that help would never arrive in time.

And the busy cannon crews had yet to score a hit on whatever blasted vessel was lurking down in the night mist. Norrington paced the ramparts, seething. "Sight the muzzle flash!" he bellowed at the sweating men. "I need a full strike fore and aft!" Cannons barked, leaping back over the stones. The cannonballs vanished into the harbor. There was no sign of impact anywhere, but Norrington had seen this too many times to be disappointed. He strode down the ramparts, rallying the exhausted men to another effort, keeping an eye on the troops in the courtyard.

He almost ran into the Governor of Port Royal. He mentally cursed himself as the bewildered older man gaped at him. "Governor!" he barked. "Barricade yourself in my office."

A cannonball hit the bell tower in a threatening mess of stone and the Governor cried out, shielding his eyes with his lacy wrists.

"That's an order." Norrington's eyes blazed at Swann, who sputtered then scrambled shakily to do as he was told.

"Again, men!" Norrington turned back to his cannon crews. Gillette was suddenly at his side, hat gone, wig askew, face streaked with soot. "We can open the gates, sir! The troops will suffocate if we do nothing!"

Norrington glanced through billowing smoke at the waiting troops below, bracing himself as the parapet shook under another salvo from the harbor. The Governor was out of sight.

Norrington opened his mouth to give permission and the doors exploded. Gillette raced for the stairs as the pirates poured into the fort like a disease.

**What do you think? Positive and negative feedback is extremely welcome!**


	11. The Gold Calls to Us

jedipati got rid of so many silly mistakes in this thing...hooray for her!

Disclaimer: Own POTC I do not.

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* * *

_

_This day was cursed before the sun rose._

The mist itself seemed to be pummeling the town, but she knew there was something inside the fog, something evil. Only a monster could bring mighty Port Royal to her knees.

Elizabeth stood like a statue on her balcony, staring over the city. Fires blazed above the palm trees and thudding of cannon fire hit her chest like a physical hand. But the thuds were better than the clamor that she could hear between them: a thousand people were crying in terror and pain.

She saw Fort James suffer hit after hit. _You go home and put your feet up, dear_, her father had said. _I'll stay at the fort with the Commodore_. Now she wished he had come home so badly her very innards seemed to shrivel. _I don't want to be an orphan!_ Too frightened to even cry, she prayed for him, for Norrington, for Will, for Hattie, numb lips repeating the same plea for safety.

A familiar clanging rang out: the front gate. Elizabeth drew back. A group of shouting ruffians holding torches ran up the circular drive below. "Help us," Elizabeth choked. As they neared the house, she whirled into her chambers. She sprinted out of her bedroom, through her sitting room, and out the door. She flew silently down the dusky hall and began down the curving staircase.

There came a ponderous thudding at the front door. Elizabeth staggered in shock when she saw unsuspecting Howard walking deliberately to answer it. _Faster, faster, faster!_ Her feet seemed to barely touch the steps, and still she was not moving quickly enough. Through the heavy chandelier, she could see Howard reaching for the door handle. Terror flooded her. "_Don't!_" she screeched, but the latch was already sliding free.

Howard found himself face-to-face with a torch-bearing mob. Two ruffians jammed in front of the others, one with a wooden eye and the other with a belly shoving out of an ill-fitting coat.

" 'ellow, chum." Pintel, revealing a mouthful of tortured teeth, raised a pistol to the butler's face.

With a burst of smoke, the fatal shot resounded. Elizabeth froze on the steps, stifling a scream with her hand as she watched Howard stiffly fall on his back. Her entire skull began to burn with the tingling heat she recognized as horror and she stood clutching the rail as the pirates clambered over Howard's unrecognizable face and into her home. There was a stench, like carrion. She felt herself begin to gag.

There were only seven of them. Five ran off into the house without glancing up, but Howard's murderer and his emaciated partner fastened their gazes on Elizabeth. She stiffened.

"Up there!" Ragetti shouted, pointing with his torch.

She saw them charge toward the stairs and could knew she was panicking. She felt as if her entire head was floating on her shoulders, disconnected, but she gasped past her spasming throat and lurched into clumsy motion. Back up the stairs, breath labored, back down the everlasting hall. She didn't remember wrenching her door open, or slamming it shut and cramming home the lock, but her mind returned to her body when someone grabbed her. She shrieked, ready to claw–

Only to find Estrella's face before hers. The woman held Elizabeth's dressing gown in a death-grip as Elizabeth dragged them both away from the door.

"Miss Swann, they've come to kidnap you!" the maid exclaimed.

"What?"

"You're the governor's daughter." Estrella's voice pleaded for understanding. A wave of helplessness made Elizabeth's knees quiver.

_Wham–_both women jumped as the pirates began to pound at the door. Gasping for air, Elizabeth looked into Estrella's dilated eyes. "Listen, they haven't seen you! Hide, and the first chance you get, run to the fort!"

She tore away from Estrella and ran across the sitting room and into her bedroom. _No one can help me now_. The thought snapped her head clear, and her very next thought sent her to her bed, where she pulled the bedwarmer free. She heard the pirates' voices enter her sitting room, and ran toward the doorway. She swung.

The bedwarmer clanged when it made contact with Pintel's face. Eyes crossed, he thumped to the floor. Ragetti lunged into the space he had vacated. Elizabeth was swinging again, but Ragetti caught the bedwarmer's handle in an iron grip. "Gotcha!"

Elizabeth clutched the bedwarmer tighter, trying to get it away from him, but he easily kept his grip, leaning in to cross his eyes at her. Enjoying her terror, he barked like a dog.

Her jaw tightened. She pulled a small lever on the handle and the pan fell open. Ragetti writhed in a resulting shower of burning coals, batting at himself. "Owee, it's hot!" Elizabeth dropped the bedwarmer, slipped around him, darted past Pintel, and flew toward the hall. She saw that Pintel had revived. She heard his grating voice: "Come on!"

At the top of the stairs, Elizabeth saw Estrella dart out the front door. Bent on following her maid, Elizabeth rushed down, small feet darting. Pintel thudded clumsily after.

Ragetti vaulted the railing and landed on the marble tile with a _slap_. Without pausing he ran to the foot of the stairs. Elizabeth shrieked and reeled to a stop. He growled. She whirled and was faced by Pintel; she turned frantically back and was confronted with Ragetti's leer. Closer and closer they came–

Something clattered, and the three turned. A pirate loaded with jewelry lurched from the basement into the foyer. There was a low howl, and a wall exploded, sending deadly shards of wood hurtling through the air. The three by the stairs ducked and were safe, but the pirate at the basement door was not so fortunate. A shard slammed into his middle and threw him back into the dark.

For just an instant the surviving trio was stunned. There came a creak from above. Elizabeth saw the chandelier sway, managed to slip past Ragetti, and tore away across the entry.

The chandelier crashed thunderously to the floor behind her and the pirate pair staggered on the steps. Elizabeth ran into an unlit dining room, slammed the double doors behind her, and then cast about. She grabbed a candelabra from a side table and jammed it upside down over the door handles. Hardly believing what she was doing, she rushed to the dark fireplace and, heroically springing up, grabbed the handle of a sword crossed with another through a decorative wood piece.

The carved thing ripped off the wall; she squealed and let it thud to the floor. Bent, she tugged at the sword, which stuck. "Come on," she begged, but it refused to slide free.

The dining room doors bowed inward and the pirates shouted. Elizabeth turned in dismay, dropping the sword.

Together, the pirates shoved again. That was enough for the candelabra; it snapped and the doors flew open. The pirates charged in.

They halted, falling silent.

The room was dark and deserted. Ragetti spotted the billowing curtains about an open window and angrily began to cross the room, but bald Pintel caught his shoulder. He looked around the room with his yellow eyes. "We know you're 'ere, poppet," he sang.

Grinning, Ragetti followed his friend's lead and they turned slowly. "Come out," Pintel said. "And we promise we won't 'urt you."

"What?" Ragetti turned on Pintel, who gave him a heavily lidded look. Ragetti's grin returned as he tapped his long nose.

Pintel turned away, searching.

"We'll find you, poppet." His voice was low, menacing. "You've got somethin' of ours, and it calls to us."

Ragetti nodded gleefully. Pintel's eyes fastened on a flipped up corner of a rug just below a tall closet. "The gold," he whispered, "calls to us."

"_Gold_," Ragetti echoed.

Elizabeth could barely breathe. She stood surrounded by shelves of dishes, a stripe of yellow torchlight falling down her face. The medallion was so cold against her skin. Realization dawned. She pulled out the medallion, and held it up in the light.

She and the taunting skull gazed at each other.

Then the light was swallowed up. Elizabeth's heart climbed her throat as she looked upward and saw Pintel's very unwholesome eye in the crack. "'ello, poppet," he murmured, and then the doors were thrown open. She gasped. Pintel had his revolver out and Ragetti was about to throw himself on her.

"Parlay!" she cried.

They froze. Ragetti's skin-crawling smile faded.

"Parlay?" Pintel repeated warily.

"Parlay," said Elizabeth, "I invoke the right of Parlay." She swallowed. "According to the Code of the Brethren set down by the pirates Morgan and Bartholomew, you have to take me to your captain."

Pintel frowned. "I know the Code."

"If an adversary demands Parlay, you can do them no harm until the Parlay is complete." Elizabeth's hands were trembling.

"To blazes with the Code!" Ragetti was coiled to spring.

"She wants to be taken to the Captain!" Pintel's fierce voice froze Ragetti to the spot. "And she'll go without a fuss." He smiled grotesquely. "We must honor the Code."

* * *

Will had not seen hide nor hair of Mr. Brown, but had had opportunities aplenty to save everyone else. His muscles were beginning to burn with fatigue. 

He gritted his teeth and hacked down a drunken pirate who was lunging for the defenseless back of a man hunched over a dead barmaid. A tavern rippling with flames reared up above them. When Will heard a dire snapping of wood he leaped into the street, punching a pirate who grabbed for him.

Behind him, an ear-shattering boom rang out, then a roar. The nearby crowd was thrown off its feet and Will was shoved into a wall, his hatchet ripped from his hand. The entire front of the tavern collapsed, engulfing the grieving man and his barmaid in a wall of flame and flipping wood. Will never saw; he was too busy navigating the augmented mayhem in the street. Sparks came in a floating downpour. Bellows mixed with screams and clanging weapons and pans and plates…mind-flattening boulders of noise riding waves of heat.

Will tore his sword from its sheath and ran back up the street to where there was more space to maneuver.

Then he saw him.

Grapple. Named for his weapon of choice, this pirate was a towering mountain of brawn, clad in a vest that exposed his gigantic arms. Standing before a lit shop window, he laughed and laughed and laughed at the raw brutality writhing in the street before him.

Will remembered that laugh. He had heard it over the cries of Miss Blaise, the nice lady on the _Seeker_ who had constantly plied him with warm beverages, insisting that his 'startling pallor' signified impending sickness instead of the broken heart that was the true culprit. During the nightmarish attack, Will had been cowering beneath a flight of stairs, unable to see what fate Grapple was forcing upon Miss Blaise. But when he had seen her parasol spin over the rail, he'd leaped out to help her with all the courage in his boy's heart, only to be thrown into the air by an explosion that seemed to rock the world.

The memory lasted the space of a blink. Since then, Grapple had not changed, but Will had, and Grapple would know it.

Grapple saw Will coming. His mirth vanished and his muscles rippled as he lifted his massive hooked weapon and brought it down at the youth's head; clutched in two hands, Will's sword deflected the blow without snapping.

Grapple was impressed. Drawing back for another blow, he was forced to block the swipe the boy took at him with his flashing blade–the weapons screeched over the surrounding noise–but with a ferocious shove, Grapple sent sword flying into the bedlam. Will barely blinked before the ice curve of the grapple had trapped him about the back of the neck. He was almost yanked from his feet as the pirate drew the two of them tight together. Grapple lifted a hatchet and pushed his face toward Will's. "Say g'bye!"

The pirate's foul breath was worse than his crazed green eyes, but the hatchet was worst of all. _I'm going to die like Miss Blaise._ Will couldn't tear his eyes from the blade; he hopelessly strained back–

_WhizzzzzzzBOOM! _Sparks and plaster rained down; Grapple's eyes lifted and he froze.

Ears ringing, Will ducked out of the grapple's circle and darted aside as a massive wood sign swung groaning down...straight into the rooted pirate. There was a shattering crash as both Grapple and sign soared back through the glowing window and out of sight.

"Good-bye," Will muttered. Pulling a second hatchet from his belt, he moved boldly out into the street, then it was his turn to freeze.

"Elizabeth!" It was a gasped whisper.

At the end of the street, he could see her. Running, dragged and shoved by two pirates, her modesty barely preserved by a dressing gown, she turned.

Through all the haze, against all the odds, her eyes found him. He could see her lips form his name in a soundless cry. Then she was gone.

Miss Blaise's dying shrieks shuddered through his mind, except he saw them coming from Elizabeth's mouth. He gasped; he'd never felt this before, being eaten alive by the need to save someone. He started forward, knowing he'd never move fast enough for his mind.

Then he stopped.

Jacoby, terribly alive, was planted directly in Will's path. He waved coyly. Will gaped.

Then the pirate's eyes dropped. Will's eyes followed.

Inches from Will's foot lay a sparking grenade. The wick was almost spent. Will tried to step back, bracing himself.

The grenade sputtered. And died.

Heart pounding crazily, Will looked up just in time to see Jacoby's expectant face fall. He nervously met Will's gaze. Will started forward with hatchet raised, ready to give Jacoby a second taste.

"Outta my way, scum!" was the last thing Will heard before a golden candleholder slammed into the back of his skull. He crumpled to the dirt. Laughing, a pirate tossed the candleholder into his other loot and jogged off with it. Jacoby giggled and darted away, pulling free another grenade.

**Reviews are very much appreciated. :)**


	12. A Captain's Welcome

Huge thanks to jedipati for her work on this!

Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own POTC. :)

* * *

Holding the bars of his window, Jack Sparrow watched the _Black_ _Pearl_ pound the town and fort to giddily flaming pieces. Then one of those inhuman shrieks resolved itself from the rest, growing into an eardrum–shattering howl. Jack jumped back, throwing himself against his cell door as part of the wall expired in a miniature fireball. Dirt and stone rained down, scorching heat brushed past, and then quiet fell. He sat up. 

A hole at least a yard high and wide gaped in the wall of the next cell, reaching a measly five inches into Jack's wall. Cackling, the other prisoners scrambled out into the night. Bone Man paused to look through the bars. "My sympathies, friend," he said to Jack. "You've no manner of luck at all!" He turned and fled after the others, his laughter ringing in the air as Jack went up to the tiny opening in his wall and rested his head mournfully against the jagged rock.

The clouds seemed to be thinning now; they pulled aside suddenly and let through the light of a gibbous moon. The blue rays illuminated the discarded Bone of Ineffective Temptation where it lay in the next cell. Resigned, Jack reached through the bars, grabbed it, then shuffled over and extended it out the front of his cell. He whistled.

Underneath a bench, the cowering jail keeper stirred.

"Cam'on, doggie." Jack smiled grimly. "It's just you an' me now, yes, you and ole' Jack. Cam'on."

The dog slowly crawled out from under the bench, key ring jangling in its mouth.

"Cam'on, that's a good boy. Cam'on, good dog." Jack wiggled the Bone about in the air. The dog stiffly walked toward him. " 'at's a good boy," Jack coaxed. "Cam'on. Bit closer! bit closer! . . . that's a good dog."

The dog hesitated, then halted and stood staring, two tantalizing feet from Jack's reach. Jack brandished the Bone fiercely. "Come on, you filthy, slimy, mangy cat!"

A brutal thud sounded from the stairs climbing out of the jail. The dog whimpered, lurched to its feet, and trotted down into the lower levels of the jail, remaining out of arm's reach as he passed.

"No, no, I didn't mean it!" Jack reached awkwardly through the bars. "I didn't–"

A pistol shot snapped from the stairs. A red-uniformed guard tumbled into Jack's view, falling to the bottom steps, where he didn't move. Heavy footsteps echoed, and two pirates came down into view. They stopped.

One was ivory, one was ebony. The ivory one said, "This ain't the armory."

Jack's jaw tightened. _Twigg an' Khoeler. Never the sharpest knives in the box_.

Khoeler, a tall, dark-skinned man with black hair tangled into crusty dreadlocks coolly slid his sword into its scabbard. "Well, well, well," he said in a deep voice. "Look what we have here, Twigg."

Jack stood and gazed frostily at them as they came up to him.

"Captain Jack Sparra," Khoeler said in his peculiar Dutch accent, then spat on Jack's boots. Jack frowned and pulled his extremities, Bone included, into the relative safety of the cell.

Sickly Twigg wore a tight, woven hat that made only emphasized his emaciated face. "Last time I saw you," he told Jack, "you were all alone, on a God–forsaken island, shrinkin' inta th'distance." They chuckled. "His fortunes aren't improved much," Twigg taunted, and Khoeler snorted.

"Worry about your own fortunes, gentlemen," Jack growled. "The deepest circle of Hell is reserved for betrayers," his voice softened, "and mutineers."

Dark Khoeler snarled and, jamming a hand through the bars seized Jack's throat.

"So there is a curse." Jack stared down. "That's interesting."

Moonlight washed over the pirate's forearm. No muscle. No skin. Just white bone, draped with the ragged fabric of his sleeve. The scent of carrion filled Jacks' nostrils.

Khoeler's eyes blazed with haunted hatred. "You know nothing of Hell." He shoved Jack back, then whirled away. Twigg followed.

Jack watched them disappear up the stairs then contemplated the Bone. At his feet, the moonlight faded.

"That's _very_ interesting."

* * *

The death-smell didn't make her gag anymore, though it permeated every shallow breath she drew into her lungs. 

Pintel was pressed against her left arm; Ragetti against her right. Behind her, the longboat was full of plunder-laden pirates who kept up a constant lecherous murmur directed at her shivering back. It was because of them she did not dare look back at the shore, for Will.

It was not how Elizabeth would have expected. In her hour of need her father had been gone. So had Norrington. Will had been the only one to even see her. She had watched for him all the way down to the waterfront, waited for him to burst out of the pandemonium and rescue her. He had never appeared. Something had to have happened to him.

Despairing, she berated herself. _You should be enjoying this. Isn't it what you dreamed of when you were young and imbecilic? The heroic maiden going to confront the pirate captain…how thrilling, Elizabeth Ann Swann._

The flashes from cannons were getting very close now–Elizabeth looked up in time to see the giant face of a wood woman revealed by the yellow flashing. She gasped. The woman was beautiful, stretched out, offering a bird to the horizon.

But her flat eyes stared at nothing and her curves were all rotting, peeling wood. The bowsprit that held her high above Elizabeth's head was no better.

Elizabeth's huge eyes watched the _Black Pearl_ emerge from the mists. Glimmers became flickering torches that barely illuminated spidery rigging and expanses of ragged sail dancing in the stagnant air. By her carvings, the _Black Pearl_ had once been exquisite, but now she was a crusty monster. A faint uproar came from her decks. Elizabeth looked for the skull flag. The fog was too thick, but she knew; she knew this was the ship from her nightmare.

She stared at her clasped hands. Her knuckles were white and her fingers quivered.

Minutes later Pintel was pulling her through a space in the deck rail. Trying to forget the humiliating climb up the _Black Pearl_'s side, she looked around then froze, every inch of her skin turning to ice.

Pirates were wildly celebrating, running about and wrestling, dancing over their plunder. The night sky was all tortured sails held high on massive masts. The useless torches on the rails created more shadows and sent soot into the air. The_ Black Pearl_ was big as the _Dauntless_ . . . bigger. Her black decks rose on both sides in a hellish cage that trapped Elizabeth in a world of men who even now crowded about with famished eyes.

Then she saw him.

He stood aloof on the highest poop deck she had ever seen, a dark figure crowned by a large hat. Oddly, a small monkey swung on a rope to light upon his shoulder. Then a cannon blast lit his face and she saw he was returning her gaze.

Pintel dragged her from the rail, deeper into the black hell.

"I didn't know we was takin' on captives," a deep voice rang out, and Pintel stopped short as a mountain of a man stepped in front of him.

Elizabeth gawked at this new threat. His head was hairless; his skin a gleaming brown riddled with raised scar patterns. He wore no shirt above his sash and breeches, only a belt across his muscular chest, and his gaze made Elizabeth's arms prickle.

"She's invoked the right of Parlay wit' Captain Barbossa!" Pintel squeaked.

Elizabeth gathered her wits and stepped forward. "I am here to neg–"

The man viciously backhanded her across the face. "You'll speak when spoken to!"

Tears in her stunned eyes, Elizabeth turned away, a hand pressed to her smarting cheek. The gathering crowd chuckled. Then went deathly silent.

A long-nailed hand grabbed the man's raised wrist. "And _ye'll_ not lay a hand on those under th'protection of Parlay," the hand's owner said.

"Aye, _sir_." The words jerked from between the bosun's clenched teeth as he wrenched his wrist free.

Elizabeth turned and sky-blue eyes met hers, shadowed by that big, black hat.

"Apologies, miss," the dark man said, grimly pleasant as his eyes flicked down once to the neckline of her nightgown.

Thin strings of gray hair that must have been glorious curls in long-passed youth framed a lean, unfathomable face. Its skin was pitted, bags hung under its dangerously flat eyes. Under a bulbous nose, a conniving mouth smirked, and greasy, curly hair grew thinly about the chin and upper lip. From this face radiated an icy promise of brutality, sheened with unpleasant manners. An idiot would know who this was and Elizabeth, who had now met two pirate captains in one day, found herself wishing that Jack Sparrow stood in this one's place.

"Captain Barbossa," she responded unsteadily. "I am here to negotiate the cessation of hostilities against Port Royal."

His eyes widened. "There're a lot 'a long words in there, miss– we're not but humble pirates." He chuckled the last words and smiled, revealing a mouth of rotting teeth interspersed with gold. "What is it y'want?"

His voice was nasal and throatily rough at the same time; an unnerving voice that one would never forget upon hearing. Yet Elizabeth pulled herself up. "I want you to leave and never come back."

The pirates laughed like rabid dogs. Elizabeth stood firm and kept her eyes on Captain Barbossa, who never twitched.

"I'm disinclined to acquiesce t'your request," he said softly. "Means 'no.'"

Elizabeth's chin rose. "Very well." She yanked the medallion from her neck and marched the few slippery feet to the rail, The jeering pirates hushed. She dangled the medallion over the inky water and looked to Barbossa. "I'll drop it."

His heavily lidded gaze never changed. "The holds 'r burstin with swag, that bit 'a shine means matters to us–" he turned to his crew; they all smiled and chuckled uneasily "–why?"

"It's what you're searching for. I recognize this ship–I saw it eight years ago on the crossing from England!"

Barbossa's eyes flickered. "Did ya now."

"Fine. Well," she drew every on shred of nonchalance she could, "I suppose–if it _is_ worthless, there's no point in me keeping it." She loosened her fist; the medallion began to drop.

"No!" Barbossa's exclamation was louder than the crew's dismayed cry. Elizabeth caught the chain and smiled triumphantly. Barbossa smiled back. Chuckling disagreeably, he came up to her and she sealed the medallion tight in her hands, bringing it close. She could feel the entire crew edging in on her. _Stand, Lizzie, stand_.

"Y'have a name, missy?"

"Elizabeth..." Elizabeth's mind scrambled, "Turner." She bowed her head. "I'm a maid in the Governor's household."

Captain Barbossa nodded and thoughtfully turned to his men. "Miss…_Turner_."

The pirates nudged each other. Pintel and Ragetti stared. "Bootstrap!" Pintel whispered.

Captain Barbossa turned to Elizabeth. She shifted warily backward. "And how does a maid come to own such a trinket?" he asked congenially. "Family heirloom, perhaps?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you mean."

"Very well." The Captain extended an open hand. "You hand it over, and we'll put your town to our rudder and ne'er return."

She could not see past his façade. She could _not_. Her eyes fell to his hand. It looked like a hawk's talon, big and strong, with filth jammed into every fold of skin.

What else could she do? These were the lives of her father, Anna, Hattie, Will, Norrington, and Estrella that she was bargaining for. Slowly, she reached out and dropped the medallion into that dark palm, letting the chain trail from her fingers.

The pirate's hand closed carefully about it. His eyes never strayed from hers as he held the medallion up toward the monkey on his shoulder. Elizabeth watched the monkey grab it and easily spring away on the rigging. She looked to Barbossa. His eyes were wall-like with satisfaction and…anticipation.

"Our bargain?" Her voice was high.

He simply turned and walked away, giving his scarred bosun a hat-flapping nod as he went.

"Still the guns then stow 'em," the bosun boomed. "Signal to de men, set da flags, and make good to clear port!"

Elizabeth rushed through the tumult after Captain Barbossa.

"Wait!" She shoved a pirate out of her way. "You have to take me to shore! According to the Code of the Order of the Brethr–"

He wheeled on her. "First–" Elizabeth shrank as he loomed over her " –your return to shore was not part of out negotiations nor our agreement, so we _must_ do nothing. And secondly, you must be a pirate for the Pirate's Code to apply and you're not. And thirdly, the Code is more what you'd call _guidelines_–" his eyes shifted wickedly "–than actual rules."

He smirked down at Elizabeth's shocked face. "Welcome aboard the _Black Pearl_, Miss Turner!"

**Thanks for reading!**


	13. Aftermath

**A/N:** Many, many thanks to meowbooks for multiple reviews full of wonderful feedback. You made my day!

Once again, jedipati did a wonderful betaing job - thank you!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

The comforting clucking of chickens woke Will Turner. He scrunched his eyelids against the bright sunlight and breathed deeply. The air smelled of morning and wood smoke and charred meat. 

The meat smell was what made Will realize that he was not sleeping in his bed. His eyes opened wide. _Ow_. Slowly, he sat up and brushed a stiff hand over his tangled hair.

The sky was an unforgiving blue. Broken glass made the dirt and cobbles glitter wetly. Everything imaginable was strewn around the street, fruit, sheets, empty bottles, hats, clubs…a baby rattle. Animals wandered about the stumps of awnings and nosed about in shattered foundations. With them stumbled dull-eyed people, shoulders slumped, picking at this and that.

It was mercifully quiet.

Will grimaced as he stood and stared at the harbor. Peaceful under the midmorning sun, the only major vessels floating in the island's embrace were the _Dauntless_ by the cliffs and _Interceptor_ at its smoking dock. The pirates had left before completely looting the town.

Confused, Will rubbed his forehead. He wondered where Mrs. Brown had ended up, with Mellie and innocent Abbey and...

_Elizabeth_.

Staggered, Will lifted the hatchet in his hand, wondering that his fingers still curved about the carefully sanded handle. The girl who had so kindly cared for him, so selflessly given whatever he had needed, had been dragged into a monster's maw. He saw her again, calling to him as she was dragged past, and felt physical pain. He had been her last hope. And he'd gotten himself hit over the head.

He started forward, and the world swayed sickeningly. He'd been hit harder than he–

"Watch yerself, lad." A firm hand grasped his arm. He looked at the tall man beside him, took in the singed cheek and bleeding neck. Then he looked away. _Elizabeth_.

"Been waitin' for you to wake up." The man towed Will over to a slashed cherry wardrobe that lay on its side and shoved the youth onto it. "Here." He pushed a canteen into Will's hand. "Drink."

Numbly, Will did. The man sat down beside him. The wardrobe creaked. "I see you there in th' street with that hatchet in a bloody hand and I thinks t'meself, There's a fighter. He'll wake hisself up right soon." The man massaged his wrist and winced. "An' so you did."

Will wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He tried to hand the canteen back. "I thank you–"

The man pushed it back. "Clean up that hand, lad."

Will blinked. He looked at his hand holding the hatchet. Brown dribbles snaked over it. He poured water on it then scrubbed, and the brown turned to red drips that splattered on the dirt.

This time when Will held out the canteen the man took it. Will stood, and the world remained steady. "I've got to–"

The man raised an eyebrow. "Then do so. An' lad…" he pointed to the swelling goose egg on Will's head, "if you can wake up from a noggin-hit like that…you can do whatever else easy."

_I sincerely doubt it._ Will barely nodded. He hurried up the street. He would be foolish to despair just yet: there was still a chance that someone else had saved Elizabeth. Yes, any number of people could've killed her captors. He would go to her home and see if she was there, because that's where she always was. She would've gone straight back.

Or would she have gone to the fort?

Ignoring protests from every limb, Will broke into a run.

* * *

The gates of the Governor's mansion hung wide open. Will saw the front door of the house gaped as well. Several servants sat on the steps. Above, another stepped out onto a balcony and looked hopelessly about. 

The sound of weeping made Will turn. A maid sat on the ground against one of the white gate columns. Looking out to sea, she sobbed, her apron held over her mouth with one hand. She looked up at Will's approach and lowered her hand. Her eyes fastened briefly on the hatchet in his hand. "Mr. Turner." Her voice was thick.

Will said, "Elizabeth."

The maid's eyes welled; she balled her apron in her fists. "She told me t'run. I did, thought she was on my heels…she _was_. The fort was burning. I hid, then saw the pirates running for the water." She shook her head, brow furrowed. "I ran all the way back here, calling her name." Tears ran down her cheeks. Will watched her knuckles grow whiter and whiter. "She never came back."

"Where's the Governor?"

"Fort."

"Alive?"

"Alive. Mr. Turner–"

Will ran.

* * *

He was toiling past St. Paul's and the victims being tended there when someone called his name. He turned just in time to see it was Abbey before she threw her arms around him. "You're alive!" she exclaimed. 

"What about Mrs. Brown?" he demanded, guilt washing over him for his forgetfulness. "What about you?" he touched the blood on her shoulder.

"I was shoved and I fell on a bottle. But I've been bandaged." Abbey pulled away, blinked her red-rimmed eyes. "Mrs. Brown…a piece of chimney got her on the head right before we found a hiding spot. She woke up just a while ago and…" Abbey's eyes dimmed. "Come along." She took Will's hand and headed for the church.

He was reluctant. She felt the tug on her hand, turned, and gave him a sad nod. "I heard the Governor's daughter is missing." She pulled him along faster. "You're going to want to put that hatchet in your belt, Will."

"I'm sorry," he managed, and moved up beside her. They hurried past growing piles of dead.

"Mellie made it," Abbey murmured, gesturing to the donkey, who was tethered under some trees. Will tried to feel relieved, but they were on the threshold of the church.

Stuffed with victims, the place of peace was no more. Pain submerged the floors, the polished pews, the broken stained glass, gurgling at the ethereal arches in prickly waves. Will was thankful when Abbey hesitated a few feet inside and led him between an old couple and a mother to where Mr. Kempe sat beside Mrs. Brown.

With a nod to Mr. Kempe, Will dropped to his knees beside Mrs. Brown, sweat trickling down his forehead and behind his ears. The woman's hair was caked with blood, but there was some color in her cheeks. She looked to be sleeping. Abbey squeezed Will's shoulder then slipped back outside.

"How is she?"

Mr. Kempe pursed his lips. "She'll live." His cleavers were gone, but his arms were just as blood-spattered as they were after a long day in the shop. "Will," he paused. "She's lucky to be alive after being hit. The stone was big as her head. But she's…" the butcher ran his thumb along his chin, "she's never going to be like she was. She can barely speak."

Will nodded, wondering why he couldn't react. It was as if his mind had been frozen ten minutes back, and had yet to melt. He looked back at Mrs. Brown's face. Her eyes moved quickly beneath her lids.

"Did you ever find her husband?"

Will couldn't help but notice the disgust with which Mr. Kempe said the last word. He shook his head. "Not alive or dead."

Mr. Kempe nodded.

Someone shrieked with pain and a baby began to cry. Will hunched, immobilized by the needs that ripped at his mind. He could not abandon the woman who had shown him tenderness. He could not abandon the young woman who had to selflessly given him a new life.

"Mr. Turner."

Surprised, Will looked at Mr. Kempe. The butcher's blue eyes, so like his daughter's, were both uncomfortable and understanding. "Abbey and I…my shop was not badly damaged. Turns out the pirates wanted fresher blood." He grimaced. "We think we can care for her better than you can, what with the demands of your shop and any other things you may need to attend to. Abbey mentioned you might have some pressing matters."

Devoid of embarrassment Will waited, feeling slightly hopeful for the first time in a long while.

"We'll take care of her and Mellie, Will, if you need us to. It would be," the man looked down at Mrs. Brown, "a pleasure."

Will blinked at the gentle look that softened the face of the widower who had clearly butchered more than livestock. He took a deep breath, trying to think of what to say.

Mr. Kempe lifted his head and one corner of his mouth quirked. He held out a beefy hand. Swallowing, Will grasped it tightly.

One shake and words were no longer necessary. Will touched Mrs. Brown's arm then stood and walked away, the image of Mrs. Brown's other hand in Mr. Kempe's lingering in his mind until he stepped into the sunlight. Head down, he rushed past the dead, wails ringing in his ears.

Once in the street he broke into a run. Someone called his name. Impatient, he stopped, and saw Abbey on the other side, carrying a water jug. "Check your pocket!" she shouted.

A cart filled with more dead clattered between them. Will shoved his hand into his pocket, and his fingers curled around something like a pebble. He brought it out.

The yellow-brown kernel rolled into his palm. Something in his chest twisted; he looked up. Abbey waved.

That was when he realized that he no longer had to wish to reach up and touch Elizabeth's world. The pirates had brought hers down. All he needed to do was leap.

_I've got to go_.

Still clutching his hatchet, Will hastened to Fort Charles.

* * *

No one tried to stop him from entering the scorched doorway. He jogged by muddled troops and scrambled down some steps into the sunny main courtyard. Beyond the remains of what might have been a gallows, he spotted the Governor, who was under a raised stone porch built into the fort wall. He darted around two Marines carrying a limp comrade and leaped up into the coolness. "They've taken her. They've taken Elizabeth!" 

Startled, the Governor turned.

A table covered by a large map of the Caribbean dominated the space. The man who had been studying it straightened to fix Will in an icy green gaze. "Mr. Murtogg, remove this man," Commodore Norrington snapped.

Of the two soldiers that stood near, the skinny one grabbed Will's arm. Will shook him off. "We have to hunt them down! We must save her!"

"And where do you suppose we start?" Governor Swann snapped. "If you have any information concerning my daughter, please, share it."

Will miserably averted his eyes. The Governor miserably turned away. Norrington miserably returned to scrutinizing the map.

"That–Jack Sparrow." Slender Mr. Murtogg spoke up. "He talked about the _Black Pearl_."

Across the way, Mullroy straightened, staring at his friend. "Mentioned it is more what he did."

The Commodore didn't even look up. Will tensed desperately. "Ask him where it is! Make a deal with him, he can lead us to it!"

"No," Norrington sighed. "The pirates who invaded this fort left Sparrow locked in his cell, ergo they are not his allies." He straightened, turned. "Governor, we will establish their most likely course and launch a search mission th–"

"That's not good enough!" Will slammed his hatchet into the map.

"Mr. Turner." Frigidly, the Commodore grasped the hatchet and pulled it free. It left a dented slit in the map. "You are not a military man, you are not a sailor," he strode around the table to Will, smiled sourly, "you are a blacksmith. This is not" –he seized Will's arm and propelled the younger man into the sunlight– "the time for rash actions."

Will gazed off to reclaim his temper then looked at the Commodore. The man's tired eyes brimmed with worry, and Will felt stabs of both resentment and shame.

"Do not make the mistake of believing you are the only man here who cares for Elizabeth," the Commodore said softly, then shoved Will's hatchet into his hand. "Now go home."

Alone, Will stepped slowly down into the courtyard, mind scrambling furiously. He kept walking, stepping around a Marine who bent over a comrade's leg. When he reached the portico leading out, he stopped and looked back.

He was forgotten.

He turned further, toward the remains of the jail door.

* * *

_O spirit of the Bone of Ineffective Temptation, do not develop acrimonious behavior against a humble prisoner who destroyed your vessel in an attempt to–_

_To–_

Captain Jack Sparrow was pressed against the bars of his cell. He had one hand through the bars and wiggling a shard of the Bone inside the lock on his door. "Please," he whispered.

A loud creak sounded from the stairs. Clattering footfalls approached, and then a painfully familiar youth rushed up to Jack's cell.

The agile fanatic.

"You. Sparrow," he announced.

Jack, lying on his back in the straw and trying not to look like he'd just thrown himself there, lifted his head. "Aye?"

"You're familiar with that ship the _Black Pearl_."

Jack let his head fall back to the floor. "I've 'eard of it."

"Where does it make berth?"

"Where does it make berth?" Jack's head came back up. "Have you not heard the stories?"

The agile fanatic was silent.

Jack spoke to the ceiling. "Captain Barbossa and his crew of miscreants sail from the dreaded Isla de Muerta. It is an island that cannot be found _except_" –he lifted his head and gestured delicately with a smile– "by those who already know where it is."

The young man's eyes caught the light and gleamed with reckless obstinacy. "The ship is real enough, therefore its anchorage must be a real place. _Where is it_?"

Jack pleasantly disregarded the youth's frantic tone, lay his head down again, and inspected his fingernails. "Why ask me?"

"Because you're a pirate."

"And you wanted to turn pirate yourself, is that it?"

The young blacksmith's hands slammed savagely against the bars. "Never."

_Tut, tut_. Jack had lifted his head yet again, but his neck was beginning to protest. He lay calmly back down, continued to hold up his hand as if to inspect it, but kept his eyes slanted to the young man on the other side of the bars.

The fanatic stepped back, bowed his head, and placed a hand uncomfortably on his hip. "They took Miss Swann."

"Oh, so it _is_ that you've found a girl!" Absurdly smug, Jack sat right up. "I see. Well, if you're intending to brave all, hasten to a rescue, and so win fair lady's heart, you'll have t'do it alone, mate." Comfortably, he watched the younger man. "I see no profit in it for me."

A pause. "I can get you out of here."

"How's that? The keys run off."

The fanatic looked at the cell door, hands on hips. "I helped build these cells. These," he brushed a hinge with his fingers, "are half-pin barrel hinges."

Frowning, Jack watched the youth turn and grab the bench that had been the jailer's hiding place. "With the right leverage, and the proper application of strength," the lad propped one end of the bench on the floor, bracing the legs between the bars, "the door will lift free."

Jack leaned back on cocked elbows, considering how this young one's attitude and face were so very familiar. "What's your name?"

"Will Turner."

_Turner...oh, praise be to every saint. _Jack sat up, carefully slow. "That would be short for William, I imagine." He cocked his head, eyes curiously intense. "Good, strong name. No doubt named for your father, aye?"

Will stared. "Yes," he said quietly.

"Uhuh." Jack looked down at his lap. "Well, Mr. Turner, I've changed me mind." He stood, beads clinking jauntily. "If you spring me from this cell I swear on pain of death I shall take you to the _Black Pearl_ and your bonny lass. Do we have an accord?" He thrust an open hand through the bars.

Will looked dubiously at that hand, then clasped and shook it. "Agreed."

"Agreed." Jack drew back. "Get me out."

Will grasped the bench, yanked back on it, and wrenched the door right up and off its hinges. A dazed _Bugger_ was Jack's only thought as he watched Will toss everything aside with a terrific crash.

"Hurry," Will said. "Someone will have heard that."

"Not without my effects!" Jack ran to a shelf and snatched up his precious belongings with a private sigh of relief. Hurriedly he strapped on his sword belt and slapped his hat on his head.

He looked at Will. "An'…we make ourselves scarce by which method?"

Will looked up the stairs. He turned and looked down the hall. Then he looked up the stairs again.

All the rigidity in Jack's spine leaked out. "Desire before planning, aye?"

Will glared.

**You like? You no like? I'd love to know. :)**


	14. Of Commandeering and Crabs

Thank you for jedipati for the beta, and for the review. Both are very, very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

"This is all spur of the moment," Will said. 

"Oh, 'course." Jack nodded. "Just as deciding to cross swords with me was. An' you'd've lost, lad, if your master hadn't interfered." Jack smiled at Will's clenched jaw then marched over to look up the stairs. "You're a blacksmith. Thought you'd know spurs're sharp things an' doing anything _on_ or _of_ them is not recommended."

"I don't make spurs," Will said testily. "Silversmiths make spurs."

Jack shrugged and scurried to look down the hall. "Y'make swords." He frowned, listening. "Wouldn' that make you a swordsmith?"

"The swords are a side business."

Jack snorted then moved to the base of the stairs. "This," he pointed up, "is our only way out."

"How do you know there isn't a door that way?" Will pointed down the hall.

Jack wheeled on him. "Did you spend a night in here?"

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ Footsteps above. Will and Jack lunged for the shadows.

"Hello down there!" came a male voice.

Shoulder to shoulder, Jack and Will looked at each other. "Go, get him down here!" Jack hissed.

Will shook his head, "You're the prisoner; he'll–"

" –Get reinforcements!" Jack said.

"Then pretend a limp!"

The wall was pounded. "Who's talking down there?"

"You scared him;" Jack growled, "he'll get help!"

"Then hurry!"

Jack curled his lip then whirled around Will and staggered to the base of the stairs with a yelp. Catching himself on the wall–_slap_–he had a glimpse of a red uniform at the top of the stairs.

"Hey! What're you doing out of your cell?" the Marine demanded, bringing his musket to bear.

Gasping, Jack leaned weakly against the wall and put up his hands. "I kicked me way through th'door. Please, don't shoot me." He lowered his right leg to the ground, then jerked it back up and winced horrendously.

The Marine was young and he glared at Jack with more wariness than anger. Thinking, he looked over his shoulder. "Don't move."

Jack looked down at himself.

"Put that pistol on the ground! And the sword!"

Jack slumped. "Truly?"

The Marine drew a deep breath to call for help.

"Aigk!" Jack pointed across the hall. "A rat as big as me mother's Holy Bible!" He

collapsed.

He looked up.

The Marine was clutching his musket to his chest, eyes huge. Quickly he lowered the musket and flattened his expression. Jack covered his face and choked.

The Marine stepped down two stairs. "Take out your pistol and throw it away!"

With a sigh, Jack complied, tossing the pistol to the right. It clattered then abruptly stopped.

"And the sword!"

The sword clanged out of the Marine's sight. The young man stalked the rest of the way down. Jack stared up at him, holding his ankle and grimacing. "Don't move…don't even blink…" the Marine tensely put his bayonet inches from Jack's face.

Jack blinked at him.

"Put the gun down."

Will's voice, less than steady, issued from the shadows at the Marine's back. The Marine felt something cold and hard against his skull.

Jack smiled at the Marine. Then he kicked him in the shin. Quick as a flash he grasped the musket and leaped to his feet. Smugly, he began, "Just not your–"

_Whump._ The Marine jerked and fell to the floor.

Jack looked at Will.

"Ruin your monologue?" Will gasped. Jack frigidly dropped the musket and held out a hand, into which Will quickly deposited the pistol and then the sword.

Jack bent his head and stood silent for five weighty seconds. Then he painfully handed the sword belt and pistol back. "You'll wear these. And the uniform. Don't dawdle."

Minutes later, Will was wearing the coat and the pants and Jack's effects over his own clothing and looking a lot like an overstuffed pillow. Jack gathered up the Marine's shirt and spread the shirt on the floor. "Now." Jack lay down on the shirt. "Tie it around me. I've died and you're taking me to the place where dead people are going, which I don't know, because I've been sitting, stagnating, an' mostly rotting in the bowels of this place."

Will knelt and folded the shirt over Jack's face, chest, and middle. "This is absurd," he gulped.

"My advice–" Jack's voice was muffled, "grin an' enjoy it. And don't tie th'blasted stocking 'round me nose!"

"Sorry." Will wiped his forehead. "Sorry," he murmured, this time to the world in general.

He tied one stocking around what he thought was Jack's forehead and, with some effort, tied the other around his waist. Then he stood and looked at the half-shrouded body at his feet. He bent and tied the sleeves around Jack's chest.

Utterly flummoxed with himself, he bent down and, puffing, heaved Jack onto his shoulder. He stepped over the Marine's senseless form and struggled up the steps. He was relieved to find the antechamber of the jail empty. He leaned his free shoulder against a wall and tried to catch his breath.

With a shudder he straightened and shuffled forward. It had never been so hard to simply walk out a door. It took every inch of Will's resolve and an elbow in the kidney from Jack, and then Will was in the sunlight. He looked tensely across the courtyard.

Trailed by attendants, Norrington was marching out of the fort with his rolled-up map. Mr. Murtogg and his friend were nowhere to be seen. The Governor–Will looked around–was stood alone on a parapet, staring out to sea.

Will clenched his teeth and walked as briskly as he could toward the fort doorway. He tried not to look as if he was watching for extra glances or surprised stares. He got a few, but not one Marine hailed him.

"That's a very unorthodox shroud."

Will jerked to a stop as an officer stepped straight into his path. Panic suffused him as he took in the never-ending expanse of gold trim and white lace a foot from his eyes. Was this a lieutenant? A captain? He tried to salute with his left hand and looked up into flat gray eyes. He averted his own to the officer's shoes.

"Your lack of respect is excused in this situation, Marine," said the crisp voice. "The dead will be laid over there."

Will followed the officer's pointing finger to rows of bodies in the shadow of the west wall.

"I, this man," he glanced up again and saw a hard mouth. "He's a prisoner."

"That makes no difference." A pause. "That can_not_ be your uniform. What is your name?"

Will stared at the officer's shoes so hard, it was a wonder they didn't start curling. "Sw-Swaren."

"Swaren?"

"Sir, this man has family in the city," Will managed. "I…they asked me to bring him. He's dead now and can do no harm."

"They _asked_ you?"

The officer's incredulity sent sweat trickling slimily down Will's neck. " I–I," he stammered, "he's, well, he's…" _Oh!_ "It pains me to say this sir, for I've only ever tried to be the best, honest–" the word burned–"man I can be. But this man, he's…he's my uncle." He let himself slump.

"Oh. I see." Another pause. "What's his name?"

Will had the inexplicable urge to throw his head back and howl like a wolf. "Richard. Richard Swaren."

Silence.

The shoes _had_ to curl. It was ridiculous that they did not.

"We all deal with family troubles, Marine. I myself have the misfortune of understanding your situation from personal experience."

Will looked up. The officer's chiseled face was regretful. He wasn't much older than Norrington. Will looked into those gray eyes as sadly as he could.

After a moment, the officer lifted his gaze over Will's head. "We must go on the best we can. Continue, Marine."

"Thank you sir," Will exhaled. He shook his head to clear it and walked, keeping his slump, out of the fort and down the road. He strode into the bruised city, trying to breathe.

He was struggling valiantly with a sudden need to run and run and run when Jack elbowed him again. "Oof!" He ducked into an alley and knelt, lowering Jack to the ground. Jack wriggled as Will untied the sleeves, and then Jack's arms burst out and pushed the stocking from his forehead. He sat up, smacked Will's hands away from his waist, and yanked the stocking so hard it snapped.

Will sat back on his haunches and looked at the pirate's sweaty, red face. "I've never lied so many times in one conversation," he muttered.

"Effects." Jack's hands extended.

Will pulled the uniform off and Jack's hat fell to the dirt along with his sword. Both were snatched up quickly. Will undid the belt, handed it over, then worked on getting out of the white breeches.

By the time he tossed the breeches aside, Jack was setting his hat in its place with a sigh. Far more composed now, the pirate looked the street over. It was full of distraught citizens, but the military was kindly absent.

"Waterfront," Jack said.

* * *

Will followed Jack underneath a stone bridge. They both splashed to one side of its arch and hugged the cool stone. 

Out in the harbor before them, the hulking_ Dauntless_ was anchored near the cliffs, while just down the shore to the right, the _Interceptor_ bobbed gracefully at her damaged dock.

Will's shoes were full of water and he did not especially appreciate the feeling, but he forgot it as he stood behind Jack, looking back and forth between the two beautiful vessels. "We're going to steal the ship." His wide-eyed gaze followed Jack's to the docked _Interceptor_, and he winced. "_That_ ship?"

"Commandeer," Jack corrected, with enthusiasm that indicated happily dry feet inside tall boots. "We're going to commandeer that ship." He pointed out across the water to the _Dauntless_. Noting Will's unhappy confusion he added helpfully, "Nautical term."

They watched the sailors, officers, and workers swarming about the _Interceptor_'s dock. There probably were about thirty men, but it looked like a hundred to Will.

"One question about your business, boy. Or there's no use going." Jack put his back to the dock and faced Will intensely. "This girl. How far are you willing to go to save her?"

"I'd die for her!"

"Oh, good!" Jack turned back toward the dock. "No worries, then."

* * *

On the snowy beach, fishing dinghies rested hulls-up. A troop of soldiers, sweating in the sun, jogged down a small path between the small watercraft and the shade of palm trees. Headed for the relief of the _Interceptor_'s shady dock, they hurried past the last dinghy without a glance to either side. 

The instant they were gone, the disregarded vessel lifted a foot off the sand. For an instant, it hovered, revealing two pairs of feet. Then the feet scuttled forward, straight into the water. The feet splashed out further and further, until the rowboat disappeared beneath the surface like a mutant sea turtle.

* * *

Some time later, Jack and Will were striding slowly through the murky blueness. The pilings of a dock stretched off to their right like a line of dead trees, but neither of them saw this. Neither of them saw the shadow of the dock high above, nor the sun that filtered through ghost-planks, nor the school of surprised fish that darted away from their slowly treading feet. Their heads were in a pocket of stuffy air trapped in the curve of the rowboat's interior, and they were concentrating on holding it above them. 

"This is either madness–or brilliance," Will said to the back of Jack's head.

Jack's feet were certainly wet now, boots or no. His upper lip curled. "It's remarkable how often those two traits coincide."

Will's right shoe came down on something with a crunch and he looked down with a quiet exclamation. His foot had smashed into the middle of a wood crab trap complete with caught crabs. Awkwardly, he tried to pull his foot free, but Jack Sparrow was not slowing for anything.

So Will walked, and the crabs came jostling with him.

On the surface, a small barrel marking the trap danced over the waves with a mind of its own, catching the amazed eyes of the Harbormaster's young, chocolate-skinned assistant, who was spending some quality time with his fishing pole and the miserable _Jolly Mon_.

How Jack knew which way to go Will could never guess, and he did not have the desire or time to try. After they reached what apparently was _Dauntless' _shadow, they let the tiresome rowboat go and swam up to the surface.

Relieved to be breathing fresh air again, they tread water near the massive rudder of the _Dauntless_, though Will flailed more than he tread, thanks to the crab trap, which was still secured to his foot.

Jack gazed up at the _Dauntless._ It stretched up more than two stories, all flawless carvings and blue and gold paint. Tricky.

After a few moments, and a few splashes in the face from poor Will, Jack turned on the youth impatiently. Will was trying to pry the trap off while keeping his head above the water, and he gave Jack an embarrassed look.

"What?" Jack attempted to swim closer, but got splashed again as Will's arms slapped about. "Apologiebbs–" Will gurgled into the waves, trying to look down and keep his face up at the same time.

"Oh–" Jack rolled his eyes when he saw the problem. "Stop–stop!" he ordered Will, who obeyed and stared at him. "Go grab the rudder," said Jack.

"Pardon?" There were gallons of water in Will's ears.

"Grab the bloody rudder!" Jack raised his voice further than was safe, but understanding crossed Will's features and he did what he was told. Once Will had his fingertips hooked into the _Dauntless_' crusty rudder,Jack slashed away the soggy trap. He caught it before it could sink and showed it to Will. "There's no crabs in it," he growled, and then got a mouthful of brine that had some loose crab trap in it, which he spat out.

"No, there aren't," Will agreed in a strange voice, "they're all on my foot." He lifted his foot out of the water.

Three mid-sized crabs were clutching folds of Will's shoe in death-grips with their free claws. Spiny and colorful, the sea creatures moved their legs experimentally in the air, feelers waving, eye stalks peering, as they gestured like tourists.

Jack silently berated them for not catching hold of Will's actual foot, too.

"Get them off." Will's voice was tight.

"They're crabs, haven't you seen crabs before?" Jack demanded.

"Yes."

Jack shook his head when Will said nothing more. With quick flicks of his wrist, he yanked the crabs right off and tossed them away. Will gave a barely-repressed sigh of relief, released the rudder, and began to tread water like a human being. Jack grimly reeled in the crab trap.

With as little of Will's help as was possible, Jack made a tangled mess of the rope all over the rudder, and then they began the most tedious process of all: climbing the _Dauntless_' balcony-graced rear. Neither wanted to remember it, but it took a lot of burning arm muscles and tying off rope here and there. And Jack, always above Will, dripped water on the blacksmith the entire time.

* * *

"Eight." Murtogg shook the dice in the cup. 

Mullroy sneered. The rest of the sailors crowding around the barrel crowded closer as Murtogg lifted his hand to roll the dice.

_Thump_. "Everybody stay calm! We're taking over the ship!"

Everybody turned to gape at the two men who stood together on the sunlit main deck, mere feet away. "Aye!" Will brandished a sword. "Avast!"

Everybody erupted into laughter as Sparrow gave Turner a glare that would singe the hair off an elephant. Then everybody looked at the business end of the pistol Sparrow extended. The laughter faded. Gillette stepped forward. "You're serious about this."

The muzzle of the pistol slid to target his forehead. "_Dead_ serious," Sparrow said.

"You understand this ship cannot be crewed by only two men." Gillette smirked. "You'll never make it out of the bay."

"Son." The safety on the pistol clicked free. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. Savvy?"

Gillette realized his eyes had crossed and quickly blinked them straight. He cleared his throat. "Sir, I'll not see any of my men killed or wounded in this foolish enterprise."

"Fine by me." Jack jerked his chin toward his shoulder. "Use one of your nice little boats so you all can get back to shore, safe an' sound."

Gillette nodded sharply. "Agreed. You have the momentary advantage, sir. But I will see you smile from the yardarm, sir."

Jack's golden teeth flashed beneath his mustache. "As likely as not. Will, short up the anchor, we've got ourselves a ship!"

Once most of the sailors had angrily climbed down into the dismayed lifeboat, Jack had time to turn and see Will straining heroically at the capstan and moving nothing. Jack looked at Gillette. Gillette looked at Jack.

"A little help?" Jack said.

Gillette squinted his eyes. "Murtogg, Mullroy." The two Marines obediently turned and moved to the capstan, each taking hold of a spoke.

Jack motioned with his pistol, smiling pleasantly, and Gillette curtly stepped up to the spoke in front of Will. Grunting, the four threw their weight forward and with a muted groan the capstan began to rotate.

"I can't believe he's doing this," Murtogg said when he couldn't see Jack or the pistol.

"You didn't believe he was telling the truth, either," Mullroy gasped.

Gillette glanced back at Will. "Do you have any idea, boy, what you're doing?"

Will averted stormy eyes and pushed harder. "No."

**Please review:)**


	15. The Best Pirate

Thank you so much to meowbooks and Rokhal for their wonderful reviews. I appreciate them more than I can say. 

Many thanks to jedipati for betaing this! 

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

At the _Interceptor_'s dock, Commodore Norrington stood near the very crane where that _horrid_ Sparrow had threatened poor Elizabeth. He was trying to concentrate on the ship's cargo manifest to avoid thinking about the night before and what he had lost. 

He knew he could have saved Elizabeth Swann. Why hadn't he thought of her, all alone at the Governor's mansion? That delicate, beautiful woman in the hands of those pirates . . . He suppressed a shudder and his fury. Jack Sparrow had begun all the trouble, that arrogant, swaggering– 

He drew a deep breath and forced his eyes to focus on the page of the book he held. The sooner he could get the _Interceptor_ into open water the sooner there would be hope for the woman he knew he loved.

"Commodore!" Groves, a young officer, stepped up beside Norrington. He gazed worriedly out to sea. Scowling, Norrington turned toward the water as a faint voice could be heard: "Sir! They've taken the _Dauntless_!"

Norrington slammed the manifest closed and shoved it into Grove's hands. He yanked out his spyglass from its pocket and pulled it open, lifting it to his eye.

He found Gillette standing in the front of a rowboat full of sailors and one soldier. The lieutenant was waving his arms wildly. "Commodore!" His voice came again across the water. "They've taken the ship!" He pointed, and Norrington turned his spyglass. 

It blurred along the side of the _Dauntless_ and into her neat rigging...neat no more. Beneath some half-freed sails two ropes waved and wobbled unnaturally, and Norrington followed them down to the deck.

"Sparrow and Turner have taken the Dauntless!" 

_Sparrow and Turner_. Norrington's spyglass found Turner's tall frame. The boy had the two ropes and was waving them awkwardly about while Sparrow looked on. 

"Rash, Turner," Norrington said, icy. "Too rash." 

Sparrow was gesturing upward now, dramatically, and the youth began waving one rope as hard as he could. Above, the sail rippled and looked more tangled than ever. Norrington lowered the spyglass. He had underestimated the both of them. He wouldn't again.

"That is without a doubt the worst pirate I have ever seen." He pressed his lips tightly together, then turned to the _Interceptor_.

* * *

Out in the harbor, Will tried to get used to standing on a massive wood tub while watching the H.M.S. _Interceptor_. Men were swarming onto her dock and over gangplanks, many of them with red uniforms. There were tiny flashes…sun on bayonets, Will realized, with a lurch in his belly. 

Then the swarming stopped. Multiple lines were pulled free and hurled to tiny men leaning over the sleek vessel's rail. Will's eyes followed multiple figures up multiple ratlines then–

On both her fore and aft masts, the _Interceptor_'s topgallant-sails bloomed gracefully downward from her spars, white as Will's best shirt. Which he was still wearing, he realized vaguely, too dismayed to care.Then beneath, larger topsails fell free and grew bloated with the wind that was teasing Will's hair. 

The _Interceptor_ visibly rocked. A flower of white appeared at her prow as she began to slice the waves. And then, the largest square sails tumbled down, down, down, rippling, stiffening. Will stared. The _Interceptor_'s wingspan made the actual wood ship below look like a modestly sized longboat. And she was coming for him.

Will sprinted up the steps to the quarterdeck where Jack stood at the helm, his pistol rested cockily on his shoulder. 

"Here they come," was all Will could say. 

The pirate turned and his dark, dark eyes caressed the falcon that hurled toward him, talons splayed and sharp, her every inch streamlined glory.

Captain Jack Sparrow grinned.

* * *

The _Interceptor_ slid like a sea serpent past Gillette's tiny dory. "Bring her around!" he yowled to the rowing sailors, "bring her around!" 

They followed the _Interceptor_, bobbing in her silky wake.

The commandeered H.M.S._ Dauntless_ drifted near the cliffs, her one tangled sail flapping sadly. The _Interceptor _slid alongside, slowed. Not a sound came from either ship. 

Norrington stood beside the boarding party, scanning the deck of the _Dauntless_. The criminals had made themselves scarce. But on a ship there was no 'scarce' that could bring success. Grimly Norrington smiled. "Grapples!"

The boarding tools soared across the ships, thudding to the dreadnought's deck, scraping over her planks, and then catching on her rail. The ships bobbed closer together. Gangplanks went across and then shouting Marines streamed over. They were careful not to jostle Norrington, who landed on the deck with a crisp thud. He marched aft. "Search every cabin, every hull, down to the bilges!"

* * *

"As I thought. Our dear Norry only had time t'bring a bare-bones crew and a few Marines–an' he brought almost everybody over here." 

Having made this smug observation, Jack gingerly straightened from his awkward position. He climbed from the face of the _Dauntless_'s prow onto the forecastle deck. Will, white-knuckled, climbed from his place beside the bowsprit and, bent in half, followed Jack to the lines the pirate had told him to loose earlier. 

The rope was thick as a child's arm and rougher than raw wood. Will grasped it. Feet up onto the rail…he looked down and the space between the ships went down and down and down–Jack was already swinging away. It was like purposefully stepping off a balcony, but Will pushed off and after he thumped to the _Interceptor_'s forecastle deck he wondered that he had feared dropping down into the water: there had been absolutely no chance of him letting that rope go. 

He clambered to his feet and pulled his hatchet from his belt as he sneaked down to the quarterdeck. He hurried down the rail closest to the _Dauntless_, whacking each grapple line free and gouging the polished wood as he did. He felt the _Interceptor_ shift beneath him when he cut the last line. They began to move, ever so slowly. He took shelter behind the aft mast and looked for Jack. 

His eyes widened. Up by the poop deck rail, Jack was covering the mouth of an unlucky sentry. Will looked nervously around for others and saw none.

"Can you swim?" Jack asked. The man, hat at his feet, struggled. Jack tightened his grip.

"Can. You. Swim?"

The sentry slumped. Jack removed his hand. "Of course, sir," the sentry said indignantly. "Like a fish. I grew up summers living in Dover, with my uncle–"

"Good." In one smooth effort Jack heaved him over the side. There came a wail and a splash. 

Faster and faster, the _Dauntless_ was sliding back. The gangplanks fell down between the ships, clattering over the gunports. Those on the _Dauntless_ turned. 

"Sailors!" Norrington bellowed. "Back to the _Interceptor_ now!" The men rushed to comply, but Norrington's heart was sinking. He had deeply underestimated them. _What a perfect failure as a new commodore, too. _Sick with disgust at himself, he watched one sailor make a noble swing, miss by feet, and somersault into the water. 

Helplessly, Norrington's eyes found Sparrow. The pirate, standing at the _Interceptor_'s helm, had twisted about to admire his handiwork. He flamboyantly swept his hat from his head.

"Thank you, Commodore, for getting us ready to make way!" he hollered. "We'd had a hard time of it by ourselves."

Marines lined against the _Dauntless_' rail opened fire, and both Turner and Sparrow ducked down. Seething, Norrington whirled and marched toward the quarterdeck deck. "Set topsails and clear up this mess," he ordered Groves. 

"With the wind a quarter astern, we won't catch them!"

Norrington turned to glare at Groves. "I don't need to catch them, just get them in range of the long nines." 

Groves followed his superior, shouting over his shoulder, "Hands, come about! Run out the guns!"

As cannon bay doors snapped open and cannons grumbled into position, Norrington leaned on the poop deck's forward railing and he gazed after the shrinking _Interceptor_, waiting for the _Dauntless_ to surge forward in pursuit. Oddly, he felt they were coming about instead. He dismissed the thought. Absurd.

Groves joined him. "We're to fire on our own ship, sir?" 

"I'd rather see her at the bottom of the ocean," Norrington growled, "than in the hands of a pirate."

"Commodore!"

Both British officers turned toward the speaker, a burly sailor who squinted at them from behind the helm. "He's disabled the rudder chain, sir." The man pulled at the helm, but it refused to budge.

Norrington had never felt his heart plummet so fast. The _Dauntless_, sails turgid with wind, was indeed coming about, headed back toward land. 

And in the _Dauntless_' path lay one very small, full dory. 

Gillette turned to see the bow of the _Dauntless_ looming directly above him, the ship's great hull only yards away and closing. He threw up his hands in terror and shrieked, "Abandon ship!"

Yelling, they all leaped from the doomed dory and into the water, flailing clear as the hull of the _Dauntless_ snapped it into shards and pulled it under.

Commodore Norrington bowed his head, eyes closed. _And just yesterday morning I was being promoted_. 

"That's got to be the best pirate I've ever seen," Groves said with grudging admiration. 

"So it would seem." The words fell like daggers from Norrington's lips as he glowered at the green shore, his green eyes the hardest marble.

* * *

Leaving Port Royal and the humiliated British far behind, the _Interceptor_ flew east, lit up joyfully in the sunlight.

Jack scurried about the _Interceptor_, trying to stay on top of everything with minimal assistance from Will, who had not yet recovered from being fired upon by upstanding military personnel. He would recover soon, Jack knew, and then he would be stunned all over again by the crime he had committed. At least he'd found his sea legs without hurling over the side; the lad probably had his father to thank for that. 

Jack moved to tend a rope near Will, who was sitting on the barrel where Jack had put him. Will's sword rested on a second barrel and he was sharpening it with a small whetstone._ Scrinng...scrinng...scrinng..._

"When I was a lad," Will said suddenly, "living in England, my mother raised me by herself. After she died, I came out here," _scrinng_,he glanced at Jack, "looking for my father."

"Is that so," Jack replied tersely. He did not like this reminiscing; he frankly had no ears for reminisces that weren't his own.

Will set the whetstone down. "My father," he reminded Jack, standing and tucking his sword in his belt, "Will Turner?" 

Jack was walking away. Jaw tightening, Will followed him up to the quarterdeck. "At the jail it was only after you learnt my name you agreed to help. Since that's what I wanted, I didn't press the matter." He watched Jack crouch to adjust another rope.

"I'm not a simpleton, Jack. You knew my father."

Brow furrowed, Jack focused on his rope. 

When Will did not leave, Jack tilted his head back into the breeze with a sigh. He stood and faced Will eye-to-eye. "I knew him. Probably one of the few who knew him as William Turner. Everyone else called him Bootstrap or Bootstrap Bill." He walked away.

"Bootstrap?"

Jack pulled free the rope loop he had used to secure the helm's position. "Good man," said he, his back to Will. "Good pirate. And clever–I never met anyone with as clever a mind and hands as him. When you were puzzling out that cell door, it was like seeing his twin." Jack twisted and looked to Will's face. "I swear, you look just like him." 

"It's not true! He was a merchant sailor, a good, respectable man who obeyed the law." 

Jack twisted again, sharply. "He was a bloody pirate! A scalawag." When Jack turned away, Will pulled his sword free. 

"My father was _not_ a pirate!" 

"Put it away, son," Jack spoke wearily to the horizon. "It's not worth you getting beat again." 

Will's voice was venomous. "You didn't beat me, you ignored the rules of engagement. In a fair fight, I'd kill you." 

Jack finally turned. "That's not much incentive for me to fight fair then, is it?" He wrenched the helm hard to the right and ducked.

The _Interceptor_'s mighty boom careened over Jack's head and slammed into Will's chest. The youth barely had the time to drop his sword and frantically grab the boom before it carried him right over the rail and out over the water. There it stopped.

Jack straightened, picked up Will's fallen sword, and went to the rail. "Now as long as you're hanging there, pay attention." 

Kicking, Will clutched the ropes that followed the underside of the boom. He unwillingly grimaced at Jack.

"The only rules that matter are these:" began Jack with the delicate eloquence of a philosopher, "what a man can do, an'what a man can't do. For instance, you can accept that your father was a pirate and a good man, or y'can't. Pirate is in your blood boy, so you'll have to square with that someday." He paused and gazed into Will's strained, shocked face. 

"Now me, for example. I can let you drown. But I can't bring this ship into Tortuga all by my onesy, savvy? So." He turned and heaved the helm to its original position. Creaking, the boom swung back over the deck and Will, lifting his feet, landed safely on the deck with a thud. He squinted, lifted his head, then stared at the blade Jack held near his face. 

"Can you sail under the command of a pirate?" Jack tossed the sword up, deftly caught it by the blade, and then extended the handle to Will. "Or can y'not?"

Slowly, Will took his sword, then his cautiously excited eyes met Jack's. "Tortuga?"

Jack's gold teeth gleamed. "Tortuga."

**Please review!**


	16. Into Tortuga's Welcoming Arms

Thank you so much to meowbooks and Starling Rising for their stupendous reviews! :)

THANK YOU JEDIPATI FOR BETAING!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Unimpeded by weather, the _Interceptor_ made good time. Over the two days it took to travel up the Jamaica channel and through the windward passage, Will equated himself tolerably with his situation, performed the tasks Jack asked of him, and rattled around the _Interceptor_, sleeping badly in different bunks each night. Jack slept occasionally in the captain's quarters and seemed to dismiss Will's behavior as one does a lunatic's.

They slipped between the giant arms of Tortuga island right after the sun slid behind the horizon for the third night. Will, resting after securing the canvas and lowering the anchor, stood at the rail and stared at the harbor encircling him.

The island rolled mysterious green shoulders under the stars, odd flashes here and there amidst strangling flora. At the center of the harbor's circle, the lit wave of the town crested up the front of a mountain. If Will squinted at the buildings and streets, they seemed to writhe. He sniffed the air. There was rot, smoke, brine…and an odd, distasteful odor he had never smelled before.

Once, Will had fled the Brown's house in the evening and climbed up to Fort Charles. Night had fallen when he turned his eyes down to Port Royal and he had thought the clear light of it beautiful. But he'd never seen a light like Tortuga's. It covered more area and it was somehow thicker, staler…more orange. Uneasy. Degraded. Fascinating. Even the dark water looked intriguingly thick, choppy, and dull.

Boots thumped up beside Will. Jack leaned against the rail. When Will looked at him, he was beaming at the infamous refuge of Caribbean scum. "'Tortoise Island,' it is, in our language. We can't be gone too long," he continued. "I lit a lamp in th'captain's quarters, but that won't fool a curious rat for long…though I'm hopin' the British colors'll be discouragement enough."

Will wondered how Jack was going to speedily recruit an entire crew. Will grew anxious when he realized it might involve Will in a way Will did not want to be involved.

Jack glanced at Will and his smile widened. "I've got me connections, boy, there's no need t'fret your valiant head."

Will turned and followed Jack across the quarterdeck and helped him unlash the lifeboat. "Did you just compliment me?" he grunted.

"Wot, th'valiant head?" As they pulled the lifeboat up into the air, Jack let his line go slack for an instant, forcing Will to compensate. "You believe being valiant is praiseworthy, then."

"Of–course!" Will strained as they lowered the lifeboat down the _Interceptor_'s side. The boat smacked the water and both men gasped with relief.

"You really are just a blacksmith who practices three hours a day wi'the thousand swords he makes as a side business, aren't you?" Jack snatched up a lantern, nimbly climbed down into the boat, and worked to untie the lines.

Will made sure he had both hatchet and sword before following slowly. He sat silently and watched Jack arrange the oars.

Jack looked at Will.

"Yes," said Will.

Jack's cheekbones caught the blue moonlight and the gold glow of the lantern, as did the coin hanging over his ruby head tie. "'at's the spirit. Here. I've rowed enough." He shoved the oars into Will's hands.

Will rolled his aching shoulders and started rowing.

Tortuga had seemed to writhe when half a mile of water had lain between it and Will's fatigued eyes, but at least it had been silent. Now, as it drew closer and closer to his back, he increasingly fought the urge to look over his shoulder because what had been faint humming was rapidly becoming a racket. Port Royal always roared but Tortuga bellowed, bellowed like Port Royal had as the _Black Pearl_ launched itself at her throat. There was no faltering of noise, only swelling. And swelling. And swelling.

Will was captivated by the water on his right, the ripples of which suddenly gleamed gold.

"A bit to the right if you please, Mr. Turner," Jack said merrily. "This would be a bash we won't be wantin' to bash into."

Will finally looked over his shoulder, as he pulled on the left oar. A brig loomed up out of the water ten yards off. Will froze mid-pull, jaw slackening. The brig was on fire!

It wasn't. Torches fixed to gun ports and rails and masts and spars made the ship ripple, blazing red and yellow and suffocating under a veil of smoke. The charred remains of sails flapped in the rising waves of heat and the windows of the captains quarters gaped to show a press of carousing people like Will had never seen before. Shoving, laughing, eating, they grabbed onto the edges of the windows to keep from falling out.

Jack kicked him in the shin.

"Rule number one," Jack said. "Keep rowing."

Will tried, but the sharp report of a pistol made him twist back around. A man tumbled from the brig's quarterdeck, and the crowd in the captain's quarters shrieked at him as he passed. They leaned out to laugh at him as he floated away, facedown and unmoving.

Jack kicked Will again, his face turning grim. "Rule number two, boy. People here take staring as a challenge or longing t'join them, both of which boil down to you getting hurt. Now either adhere t'rule number one, or please, get out an' get in a pickle by yer lonesome."

Will gritted his teeth and threw his back into rowing. The brig slid by, and the right side of his face grew slightly warm from its fires. He glanced one more time as they left the brig behind and saw all the decks were packed with people bearing bottles and guns and clubs and ratty fans. They hung from the spars, the surviving ratlines…one lady fainted and fell onto the carousers below, likely from breathing too much smoke. Even the bowsprit was crowded. A man leaped from it to the water, his shirt on fire. Will could hear his companions howling with mirth.

After some clear water, Will threaded his way between two massive ships that sat dead silent in the water. Creaking, they blocked the noise somewhat, giving the feel of a midnight vacuum of anything alive. Will's neck prickled with the feeling of being watched, but when he glanced up, he saw only gaping black gun ports and deserted rail.

He was glad to slide free of the ships' eerie quiet, but coming out from between them was like stepping into the middle of a party. Dinghies and dories and all manner of floating devices crowded the water, and their passengers all seemed to be infected with the same sickness that drove them to communicate only at the tops of their lungs.

"Rum! Rum and fried chicken! Fresh mussels! Go down like cream!" The man selling tilted his head back and tipped the gray contents of a shell into his rotting mouth, his throat undulating as he swallowed it.

"Gentlemen! Oh, handsome, weary gentlemen! Come join Brigit and her sisters; we'll refresh you like a wave of spring water!"

Will took one glance at the gaudy women floating some yards off and sighed. He thought of the quiet rail of the _Interceptor_ and wished that he were leaning against it right now.

One glance at Jack revealed his sentiments to be precisely the opposite. The pirate was waving to the ladies, who cooed in return. Will must have had a severe expression on his face, because Jack took one look at him and laughed. "Try the dock off yonder," he said with a lazy gesture, and then turned back to the women.

Will looked, and saw a dock that was half empty in the middle of a waterfront that was so cluttered it was almost impossible to move. Feeling deep a misgiving, he obeyed, barely avoiding a collision with a train of three dories stuffed with drinking couples. "Just Mereed" had been painted on the hulls and no one was bothering to kiss just hands.

When the lifeboat thumped the dock, no one jumped out to drive Will away. The long stretch of wood was deserted, all the way to shore. Will climbed out and, unsteady on his sea legs, prepared to secure the lifeboat.

A hand landed on his arm. The fingers were knobby and weathered. Will turned.

He looked into the endless black eyes of a warrior. The watchful flatness of the gaze made Will lunge to his feet and almost fall backward, his neck prickling.

The man stood as well, deliberately, smoothly, unfolding a dark body that, clad only in breeches, seemed every inch alive with squiggles that looked like faces and then animals and then disgusting growths. Tattoos, Will realized breathlessly. The man was no taller than Will, but where Will was simply muscled this man was powerfully toned and there was a sharp danger in the way his black hair was pulled tightly back from his face, with its high cheekbones and hairline mouth.

The man flicked one wrist and a blade was in his hand. Will got a glimpse of a wrist sheath made to match the tattoos on the inside of the man's wrist before the blade was at this throat. He hadn't even thought to grab his hatchet, he was so shocked.

"You wish to leave your vessel at Daizon's dock?" the man said, in perfectly accented English.

The question felt like a threat. Speechless, Will looked at Jack, who was delicately picking his way across the lifeboat. The pirate glanced up. "Oh yes, of course."

Jack had just sentenced Will to death in one of the most obscene places in the Caribbean. The cold knife would slice his throat and he'd fall back into the water and it would close over his face and Elizabeth would never be rescued and instead die–

Daizon smiled. All his teeth were gold but the yellow color was disgusting. "Then you will answer my riddle. I love riddles; they separate the gold from the silt. If you end up silt, well," Daizon pressed. The knife broke Will's skin. Will gaped, trying not to swallow to violently.

"Jack?" He looked to Jack, who just smiled pleasantly. _If I survive I'm going to cut his fingers off one by one_.

Without shifting, Daizon began to speak.

"I am sometimes strong  
and sometimes weak,  
But I am nobody's fool.  
For there is no language that I can't speak,  
Though I never went to school.

"Now. I'm going to count in my head each man who couldn't answer my riddles, each man who lies below your feet on the floor of the ocean. When I finish you will give me an answer."

The uproar all around faded into vibrating stillness. Will's mind scrabbled desperately over the words of the riddle, but the stinging on his neck stifled any reasoning. He wondered if he just let himself fall backwards if his fate would be more merciful. Pulse pounding, he looked again to Jack, who seemed to be pondering something. Probably the women in the harbor, Will thought wrathfully.

Daizon's eyes were distant and his lips moved rapidly.

Jack's eyes gleamed suddenly at Will.

"Fifty-three. Fifty three men." Daizon's eyes focused.

"Fifty-three," Jack mouthed, "fifty three men." Then again, "Fifty three. Fifty three men."

Daizon smiled. "Give me my answer or join the rest in the blackness."

Will, through his panic, saw Jack's lips forming Daizon's words again, only after Daizon said them, _Give me my answer or join the rest in the blackness_. _Give me my answer or join –_

Then it struck. No, it couldn't be.

Diazon bared his teeth and the muscles on his arm bulged.

"Echo," Will whispered.

Daizon's eyes were cold. He slipped the tip of the dagger around Will's jaw to behind his ear, then leaned close.

Paralyzed, Will stared into those eyes and wondered why he had ever decided to leave England.

"I will let no harm come to your vessel. Well thought." With the lightest rush of air, Daizon drew back and the dagger disappeared. Jack was already bowing and clasping his hands. Exhaling sharply, Will bent in half, hands on knees, trying to get the blood to go back into his head.

"Come along," Jack said.

Will straightened. Daizon was nowhere to be seen. Putting his hand to his throat Will turned on Jack with a ferocious glare.

Jack held up a finger. "Don't be swellin' all wrathful at me. Believe it or no, you're the only one who thought y'couldn't do it."

* * *

If there were businesses other than taverns and brothels in Tortuga, Will reflected, they had to be hidden very well. Then he realized Jack was talking to him.

"We need a crew," the pirate was saying loudly. "We c'n manage the ship between islands, but th'open sea, that's another matter. An' this's the place to get one. But half of a' it's the experience. Crews are nice, but more importantly, it is indeed a sad life that's not breathed deep this sweet and proliferous bouquet that is Tortuga. Savvy?"

Pushing past a leafy vine, he snatched a gold-tipped cane from a man who, running after another man, had been wielding it like a club. "What do you think?" He stopped and turned to Will, angular face lit by Tortuga's stagnant orange light.

Will looked at the mountain of rum barrels that gurgled only feet away. Men and women alike sprawled atop it, gulping the stuff from streams and mugs like desert wanderers at an oasis. Out in the square before them, cackling men were shooting at each other, others were being dragged in the dust behind wagons, and another unfortunate one was being tossed off a rickety balcony. Animals and women mixed into it all, and sulfur, smoke, perfume, food, and filth filled the air, the whole world.

"It'll linger," Will finally said, and continued to look in every direction possible, hopefully without seeming to.

"I'll tell you, mate, if every town in the world were like this one, no man would ever feel unwanted." Jack turned, then straightened with delight. "Scarlett!" He lurched toward a busty redhead. Will followed.

The slender woman sauntered up, smirked her dark lips, and slapped Jack across the face so hard his head twisted to Will's shocked one. "Not sure I deserved that," Jack grimaced.

When Jack sheepishly straightened, an equally gaudy blonde had replaced Scarlett.

"Giselle!" Jack exclaimed, cautiously.

"Who was she?" the willowy woman tilted her face after Scarlett.

"What?"

Giselle whacked Jack across the face then marched away. Jack couldn't meet Will's eyes. "I may have deserved that."

"May?" was Will's curt response. "Tell me Jack, how many more old…paramours do you plan on running into? And while you're at it, would you care to notify me of the next time I'm to almost die to help you? Perhaps, when we find a place to stay?"

Jack looked at Will like he was crazy. "No, it's likely you'll find death's hand at your throat before we even consider searching out a place to stay." He swaggered off and Will followed, flinching as a bullet whizzed past his head.

They made their way up deafening, narrow canyons formed by deteriorating buildings whose spines no longer held them erect, passing through clouds of smoke that smelled sweet and odd to Will, passing by attempted garroting and men cheering a boxing match in a ring of fire. The shadows thrashed with humans whose business was too ugly for the torchlight and there was hardly a window without someone hanging out of it. Will nearly tread on Jack's heels countless times, he was so nervous they would be separated.

Suddenly, Jack turned and squatted down beside a one-wheeled cart. Will followed and the pirate met his gaze. A golden strip of light coming through the broken slats ran over Jack's eyes, enhancing an abrupt otherworldliness to the pirate that made the hair on Will's arms stand up straighter then it already was.

"Do not look, but we're being followed."

"What?" Will began to turn; Jack smacked his face forward again.

"We know you're an ignoramus; please, don't act like a deaf ignoramus."

"Do you know who it is?"

Jack's liquid eyes squinted, shifted to the right, then disappeared under the pirate's eyelids. "It's a lackey of a kind benefactor who's taken it 'pon himself t'arrange armed welcoming parties for me wherever I go. Let's keep moving."

"But–" Will sputtered as he moved after the mincing pirate, making an obvious effort not to look back. Jack never responded. Will had no choice so he just followed, the knowledge of a stalker causing him to step on Jack's heels twice.

Jack suddenly made a beeline across the street and into a tavern. Right before going through the beaten doors, Will glanced up to see a sign with a shackled woman in a white dress crowned by the words _The Faithful Bride_.

Inside was somewhat calmer than the street, but not by much. Maids with trays scurried about, calmly dodging fists and careening bodies. The air was like sewer soup, the only light from candles giving a bloated yellowness to the entire place. Will was trapped against the bar by two brawling men, and he saw Jack sidling up to the bartender. Keeping an eye on Jack and the men who were writhing on the floor, Will watched the tavern's entrance.

A tall, tall dark man who looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks skittered through the doors and toward the stairs. Another younger man came in with two laughing women on each arm. A stick of an Oriental with baggy clothes followed, slumping exhaustedly.

Then another man with a ratty hat pulled over his eyes sidled into the shadows. He looked around slowly, then focused in Jack's direction. Will's eyes narrowed.

The man's head turned toward Will and Will quickly looked away.

Jack was suddenly at his side. "We need to go out back."

Sticking close to Jack once more, Will risked one glance back. The ratty hat was turning to follow their movement.

* * *

Never had Will's nose been assaulted by such a smell. Breathing shallowly, he peered over Jack's shoulder at the pigsty. There was a man there in the mud, sound asleep with his head pillowed on one of three dozing pigs.

_Unbelievable_.

Jack took one look at the man, snatched up a slop bucket, and marched to the rain barrel. Will, still reeling at the stench, took up the second slop pail and filled his with rainwater. He arrived at Jack' side just as Jack tossed his rainwater onto the sleeping man, who gave a violent start, pulling a dagger from his belt.

"Curse you for breathin', you slack-jawed idiot!" he howled.

Jack waited for the other to get a good look at him. Then Jack smiled as the other man's face lit like a sunrise.

"Mother's love!" the man exclaimed as he sheathed his dagger. "Jack!" His face went solemn. "You should know better than to wake a man when he's sleepin'. It's bad luck."

"Ah. Fortunately, I know how to counter it." Jack moved companionably forward. "The man who did the waking buys the man who was sleeping a drink. The man who was sleeping drinks, while listening to a proposition from the man who did the waking."

The drunk stared, then smiled brightly. "Aye, that'll about do it." He extended his hand let Jack pull him out of the mud.

Jack stepped back and Will hurled forth the contents of his bucket in a second bath. The drunk shook his head like a dog. "Blast! I'm already awake!"

"That was for the smell." Will said evenly. He forgot his disgust as he recognized this man from his time on the _Dauntless_; this was a very unkempt Mr. Gibbs!

Mr. Gibbs sputtered, and then sheepishly shrugged.

* * *

_Beautiful, beautiful amber ambrosia, nectar of the…th'sugar cane…_ Precious drinks in hand, Jack sauntered untouched through _Faithful Bride_'s chaos. On his way he passed an overwhelmed Will, who was plastered to a wood column. He paused at the younger man's shoulder, glancing at everything as if noticing it for the first time.

"Keep a sharp eye," Jack told him gravely, then walked on a few feet to a quiet table where Mr. Gibbs waited for him. He sat, pushing a tankard into Mr. Gibbs' eager hand.

"Now. What's the nature of this venture a' yourn?" Mr. Gibbs leaned toward Jack as he took a drink.

Jack seemed to brace himself. "I'm going after the _Black Pearl_."

Mr. Gibbs choked. He lowered his tankard and pounded his chest, glancing around.

"I know where it's going to be," Jack said, "and I'm going to take it." He smiled, head cocked in his peculiar way.

Mr. Gibbs' head was shaking. "Jack, it's a fool's errand." He glanced nervously about. "You know better 'an me the tales of the _Black Pearl_."

"That's why I know what Barbossa is up to. All I need is a crew."

"From what I heard of Barbossa, he's not a man to suffer fools, nor strike a bargain with one."

"Well, I'd say it's a very good thing I'm not a fool then, aye?"

"Prove me wrong. What makes you think Barbossa will give up his ship to you?"

Jack leaned in. "Let's just say it's a matter of leverage, mate."

Gibbs frowned. "Huh?"

Jack swiveled his head toward Will, looked to Gibbs, then did it again. "Hnnn..."

Gibbs squinted, shook his head, "Nnn..."

"Hnn? _Hnnnn_!" Jack jerked his head at Will, paused, then comically exaggerated the movement, dark eyes wide.

Gibbs finally turned and saw Will, who was trying to ignore a merrily huge woman who, among other misconceptions, thought she was coyly nudging Will while shoving him so hard that he stumbled to the side.

Gibbs' nose wrinkled upward, and with it all of his dirty face. "The kid?"

Jack nodded once. "_That_ is the child of Bootstrap Bill Turner." He placed the words like gold coins on the table between them.

Gibbs' eyes went wide, his whole face un-puckering.

"His only child," murmured Jack. "Savvy?"

"Is he now." Gibbs looked to Will again.

Poor Will had regained his place against the column and was suffering an ugly look from an uglier man who was pulling the still-chortling woman away.

Gibbs grinned at Jack. " '_Leverage'_, says you," he said, " '_I think I feel a change in the wind_,' says I. I'll find us a crew. There's bound to be some sailors on this rock as crazy as you!"

Jack shrugged modestly. "One can only hope." He lifted his tankard to Gibbs'. "Take what you can–"

"–give nothin' back!" finished Mr. Gibbs gleefully. They shoved the tankards together, tossed back the contents, and slammed the empty tankards to the table in unison.

**Please review! Thank you!**


	17. Terror

Hooray for meowbooks and Starling Rising for leaving such kind reviews! Thank you!!

jedipati is who I have to thank for the absence of major mistakes! :D

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Elizabeth was put in the captain's quarters; there was to be no damp brig for her. Instead, a bunk that reeked of death, warped glass windows that offered only a surreal view into the constant white fog, and the sounds of footsteps pausing outside the locked doors; silhouettes of hungry monsters lurking behind the thin wood barriers. Though no one had entered since she had been locked in, she could feel the crew's desire to eat her with their eyes like a physical pressure against the doors.

But after the second night, she didn't care. Never had she been so hungry; the water they had left her no longer helped. Her entire middle was gnawing at itself in a panic, leaving her to alternately pace and curl up to weather the cramps. In the unsure space between sleep and consciousness she wondered if they had forgotten her. When she woke, she wrathfully told herself it wasn't true; this was a test, and if Barbossa thought to break her in some way he would just have to wait. Until she died.

There was a moon, but darkness had fallen and she was again pacing, the multiple candles glowing on each wall blurred by her worries and the dread of another torturous night without food.

Then with a loud clank, the doors opened.

When Elizabeth saw it was Pintel and Ragetti, she marched up ready to tell them what she thought of their rotten captain and their rotting ship, but Pintel spoke first.

"You'll be dinin' wit the Captain," he told her. "And he requests you wear dis." He held out a deep red and black heap of material.

Elizabeth glanced at it and realized it was a dress. Scandalized; she shot Pintel a look of pure malice, jaw tight. "Well, you may tell the Captain that I am disinclined to acquiesce his request."

The two pirates exchanged glances, and Pintel grinned. "He said you'd say that. He also said if that be d'case, you'll be dinin' wit the crew." His grin widened to show more rotting teeth as Ragetti giggled. "And you'll be naked."

Elizabeth gaped. Then she snatched the dress and folded it protectively against herself, giving Pintel a challenging look.

He scowled. "Fine." The two pirates stalked out, slamming the doors behind them.

Seething, Elizabeth whirled away, threw the dress on the floor, and stomped on it.

A full table was set in the captain's quarters. The meticulous cook had saved his rabid attention for the food he placed on the large, gnarly table, and it was well for him, because Elizabeth was ready to tear something apart.

Now alone, she stared out the viewless windows, starving, fuming, and humiliated. The musty gown's bloodred material and inky lace was nothing next to its low neckline, and the neckline was nothing next to the lack of fastenings. The entire upper section of the bodice gaped wide. Elizabeth's nightgown, worn underneath, worked to preserve some of her modesty, but knowing that she had to endure an entire meal–and who knew that else–with the most repulsive man she'd ever met, while wearing a dress that didn't even fasten close in a most vital place, almost erased her appetite, despite the savory smells that filled the entire space. Breathing shallowly, she listened to the glasses and candelabra sliding back and forth with the swaying of the ship, feeling upset enough to kill.

There was a soft chattering, and the tapping of tiny paws. The monkey chittered and leaped onto its perch.

She half-turned; saw that the doors were somehow open, and that he loomed black in the doorway, his huge, feathered hat in place.

_Why are the doors silent for him, but not his minions?_

She could both see and feel him appraising her.

"Maid or not, it suits you," he said softly.

She turned fully and his slight smirk sent a wave of outraged adrenaline from her dizzy head to her toes. A flush climbed her cheeks and she hated him for it. "Dare I ask of its previous owner?" she bit out.

Captain Barbossa clucked, smirk widening to a grin. "Oh, now none a' that." He moved deliberately to one of the heavy, carved chairs. He rested a hand on its back, and her eyes fastened on his claw-like nails. He gestured. "Please."

Woodenly she obeyed, sitting, poised to flee should he even touch her. He didn't. He lowered his face next to hers, and looked at the food; she turned away.

"Dig in." He retreated to his own chair.

It was all so strange, she almost refused, especially when all he did was sit back and fix his eerie blue eyes on her. But there was a leg of pork on a platter some inches from her dismayingly empty plate, and it glistened at her, the perfect crispy tan-pink. Agony snaked through her middle and she had to gulp to keep from drooling. An instant later, her napkin was in her lap and the leg was on her plate and she had taken to it with knife and fork.

She lifted the first morsel to her lips, and the room swayed when she began to chew and flavor engulfed her mouth…the world. If it weren't for the way he was watching her she'd…

He was wincing, his pockmarked skin not softened by the candlelight. "There's no need to stand on ceremony, nor call to impress anyone." He looked sympathetically into her eyes. "You must be hungry."

She considered. _Clang_ the knife and fork hit the table and then she'd seized the pork chop in both hands. She ripped into it with her teeth, barely swallowing before tearing free another bite.

Barbossa's eyes were glazing. Entranced, he poured wine into a sliding goblet as she grabbed a piece of bread from a platter and bit into it. He let her chew, then held out the goblet, whispering, "Try the wine."

Somewhere under the primal need to eat, her intellect was wondering at the situation, but she grabbed the goblet, and as she gulped, he plucked up a green fruit. "And the apples," he held it out to her, "one of those next."

Elizabeth froze, fingers sliding from the goblet. That_ is why he's starved me and then put all this supposedly wonderful food before me…that's why he's refraining!_ Her gaze darted to Barbossa's monkey, who stopped chewing to watch her. Silence fell and Barbossa lowered his hand.

"It's poisoned," she quavered.

He cackled. "There'd be no sense t'be killin' you, Miss Turner."

"Then release me! You have your trinket; I'm of no further value to you."

Barbossa produced the medallion from a pocket of his coat and held it up, resting his elbow on the table. "Y'don't know what this is, do you?"

"It's a pirate medallion," she replied defiantly.

"This," Barbossa corrected, "is Aztec gold. One of eight hundred and eighty-two identical pieces they delivered in a stone chest to Cortéz himself. Blood money paid to stem the slaughter he wreaked upon them with his armies."

Motionless, Elizabeth listened.

"But the greed of Cortéz was insatiable. So the heathen gods placed upon th'gold," he paused, "a terrible curse." Elizabeth's eyes flicked to the medallion's mocking face. "Any mortal that removes but a single piece from that stone chest shall be punished, for eternity."

She looked him coolly in the eye. "I hardly believe in ghost stories anymore, Captain Barbossa."

He smiled. "Aye." He stood, and started around behind her. "That's exactly what I thought when we were first told the tale. Buried on an island of dead what cannot be found, except for those who know where it is."

He leaned down over Elizabeth's left shoulder, staring off into time. "Find it, we did. There be the chest. Inside be the gold. And we took it all." He grabbed at the air.

"We spent them and traded them," he straightened and retraced his steps, "and frittered them away on drink and food and pleasurable company." He leaned now over her right shoulder and looked at her, hand on the chair.

"The more we gave 'em away, the more we came to realize the drink would not satisfy, food turned to ash in our mouths, and all the pleasurable company in the world could not slake our lust." She flinched imperceptibly. "We are cursed men, Miss Turner." He pulled away, face and eyes haunted. "Compelled by greed, we were, but now, we are consumed by it."

Despite herself, Elizabeth's heart pounded and chills ran over her skin. But as Barbossa's monkey screeched wildly, she rallied. Barbossa was clearly insane. And she'd be–_forgive my language, Father–_damned if she was going to sit and let him have control.

So when Barbossa turned to soothe his pet, Elizabeth took a deep breath and slid her meat knife into the folds of the napkin on her lap.

"There is one way we can end our curse." Barbossa handed the medallion to his monkey, who bit on it, then leaped onto his shoulder as he moved away. "All the scattered pieces of the Aztec gold must be restored and the blood repaid." Approaching Elizabeth; he motioned the monkey away and it bounded down his arm and loped into the shadows. "Thanks t'ye, we have the final piece."

Elizabeth's throat went cotton-dry. "And the–blood to be repaid?"

"That's why there's no sense t'be killin' you." Barbossa smiled. "Yet."

Silence fell tingling and heavy. "Apple?" He gazed into her huge eyes and mockingly offered the fruit.

_A madman who wants to kill me…help me, help me!_ Desperation shattered her paralysis and she knocked the apple out of his hand then leaped to her feet, teeth bared. Up came the knife; Barbossa stumbled back with an exclamation.

For an instant, she was ready to stab him. Then it passed and she shrieked and darted past him for the doors, slipping to the left of a carved support. On the other side his heavy steps moved parallel to hers, and though she put on a burst of speed he was careening around to catch her when she shot free. She evaded him, twisting back the way she'd come, but he mirrored her, matching her cry with his own growl.

Gasping, she was already turning back, long curls flying. She made a final dash for the doors but he caught her by her bodice and wrenched her toward him. A voice cried, "No!" and by the time she realized it was her own, she'd plunged her knife deep into his heart with one savage motion.

They both froze.

Elizabeth stepped back, the feel of his tearing flesh shuddering up her arm and stirring the contents of her stomach. _I can't have…can't_…

Barbossa looked down. He grabbed the knife's handle. Elizabeth shrank down. Barbossa pulled the knife slowly from his heart; it sucked free then gleamed a wet red as he held it up.

"I'm curious," he said. "After killin me, what is it you're plannin' on doing next?"

Hyperventilating, she scrambled away. She hit into the doors and they opened easily, sending her stumbling out onto the moonlit deck. She turned toward the scraping sound of fiddle behind her.

Elizabeth Swann screamed.

* * *

In _The Faithful Bride_, the man with the ratty hat was nowhere to be seen. Will knew because he had looked.

And he had had plenty of time to look while Jack was scheming with Gibbs. Now he sat in Gibbs place, feeling a bit safer, eating a hot meat pasty. Jack had shoved the pasty on him with a grimace indicating that thankfulness was not going to be tolerated, and Will had not minded. The way Jack and Gibbs had put their heads together, with the occasional glance at him, foretold to Will a future equally unworthy of his gratitude.

"When will we be off?" Will asked, swallowing the last of his pasty and wishing fervently he could have two more. He almost licked his fingers, then saw how filthy they were and opted to wipe them on his breeches instead.

"Hmm?" Jack turned from scanning the tavern, his eyes distracted.

"When can we leave?"

Jack shrugged. "Gibbs'll get us candidates by midmornin', I 'magine, n'then we can leave." He lifted his second tankard of rum to his lips and gulped gloriously. When Will could see his face again, his eyes were mellow as cozy, still pools, and his pert lips were curved in a tiny, sated smile.

It was so very pathetic. Will sighed to himself and lifted his eyes over Jack's shoulder. _She's still looking at me!_ He shifted to the left, putting Jack directly between himself and a gaudy girl slouched in a corner. She'd been making eyes at him since he sat down. It was going to be a long night.

Jack took a deep swallow of rum, looked to his left, and choked. He surged to his feet, and then thumped right back down into his chair, propelled by a large yet fine hand.

"Leaving already?" the hand's formidable owner exclaimed. "Don't be 'urting _mes sentiments_, Jacky, I do not think I can bear it."

**Thank you for your time and please review! **


	18. The Games We Play

**A/N:** Thank you to meowbooks and Starling Rising for their reviews! You both have reviewed so steadily, I can't say thank you enough. You're sweet and wonderful and I will continue to be grateful for the time you spend on my work. It means more than I can say!

Thank you so much to jedipati for her wonderful betaing work!!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Jack glared, grabbing his tankard as if it made him feel safe. "I've asked y'not t'call me that."

The tall man easily snatched up a chair lying on the floor, planted it, and sat down between Will and Jack. For a moment, Will stared at the fine burgundy silk of the man's waistcoat. Gold buttons gleamed on the large cuffs and plackets of his coat, which was so deep a red as to be black. Then the man folded his hands on the table. His fingers were white and slender, unadorned. Will caught a faint whiff of flowery perfume.

He smiled eagerly at Jack. "I could not resist. It has been so very long since we last talked."

Jack was looking queasy. "Ah yes. A very long time."

"You see, this night marks that two 'undred and third night that's come to me without payment from you. What, you're still drinking this _cambouis_?" He took Jack's tankard and sniffed, then slammed it back down. " 'ow many times must I tell you, Jacky, rum will rot _ton cerveau_?"

Jack leaned back, seeming to compose himself. "T'be heartlessly honest, Renard, me brain is so rotted already, said sludge can only help."

"_Déplorable!_ But I do not want to keep you long, _mon ami_. Despite the rot, I am sure you remember November 14th, 1688? Wicklow…the Killruddery House…need I go further?"

Jack lowered his eyes and pursed his mouth. Then he looked up. "Sounds Irish?"

The man's expression flattened with annoyance that was not to be taken lightly, especially since two huge bruisers had just appeared at his shoulders. They wore floor-length black coats with frightening bulges beneath. One looked at Will and one looked at Jack.

Jack frowned awkwardly and Will shrank back in his seat.

Renard smiled. Beneath his thin mustache, his smile was really quite charming; the gaudy girl in the corner had completely forgotten Will, and she received a wink of one of Renard's black eyes for her admiration. "You're sure you don't recall, _cher_ Jacky?"

Looking thoroughly cowed, Jack mumbled, "One hundred pounds worth of wine, lost in the Channel."

"_Oui_," Renard said pleasantly. "My _vin_. Which I what?"

"…Had hidden on the boat y'loaned me…" Jack sighed, "…for escaping certain individuals what didn't have me best interests in mind."

"Yes, that I loaned you. Out of the goodness of my heart." Icicles hung from Renard's sharp enunciation. "That was a blow I did not recover from, for my business was young _et_ _vulnerable_. I don't think you'll like the interest your debt has accrued, Jacky."

Jack's eye twitched. "You seem t'have done well for yerself anyhow."

"Indeed I have, my friend!" The icicles melted in a tropical cheeriness. "My new business is not as clean as the wine trade, yet, I believe I was never destined to be _un entrepreneur irréprochable_…" Renard suddenly turned on Will. "Are you with Jacky here?"

Will nodded, wishing he wasn't. He felt even worse when Renard's narrow face was transformed by a wolfish grin.

"How do you intend to pay me, Jack?"

"Well. I've never been one to…"

"Yes?"

"…deal unhonestly wi't me mates, or even been disposed to disappointin' people, but…"

"You are holding back!" Renard exclaimed, as if to a timid musician. "Torture us all no more and let free!"

"Well," Jack dug at the table with one nail, "I…"

Renard leaned closer.

"I can't pay you." The phrase was barely audible.

Will realized he was gripping a leg of the table in iron hands.

Renard crowed. "You're making such progress, Jacky! Fortunately, I foresaw this, and have a way _charitable_ out for you. You want to hear it?"

"I would," Jack said quietly.

"Well, then I must tell you about my new business. There's some people in Spain who…well, resent the English. They're fond of turning English _prisonniers_ into workers…"

"Slavery," Jack spat.

Renard winced and shook his head, and the shrugged. "Well, yes, more or less. _Mais_ you drove me to this, Jacky! They usually pay the deliverers quite well, in this case, _moi_. But you see, I work with everyone."

Jack raised a scathing eyebrow.

"There are the plantation owners. There are the shop owners. And there are the noble families who need laborers; the men for their fields, the women…well." Renard turned to Will with a glitter in his eye. "That's where this comely specimen comes in."

Will almost jumped out of his chair, but the bruiser who had been watching him took one step over and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

Jack stared at the hand on Will's shoulder. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, it's a discreet sort of business, but some Spanish ladies pay very dearly to have _attirant_s young men tending their _jardins_." Renard leered at Will, who was quivering with panic and outrage.

"Now, Jacky, I was thinking I'd take you to Spain and see if any of them took to your obscenely ugly dreadlocks and slurred speech. But you're so old. Believe me, I didn't have much hope. But this one…" Renard took Will's chin and forced it up, his eyes following Will's taut jaw line. "He'll fetch a far higher price than you. He's got the _visage_, _la forme_…and he's fiery." Renard released Will and surveyed his glare. "Spanish ladies are very spirited, boy. You'd find your match in your _maîtresse_, and she'd be so pleased to find her match in you."

"You're mad," Will snarled.

Renard just smiled smugly and looked to Jack.

Instead of looking revolted, as Will wished, the pirate instead looked calculating, his eyes veiled. "All Spanish ladies're like this?"

"Only a select few, my friend. It's an intimate market. _Alors_, you let me take this _merveille_, and all grievances between us are forgotten."

Jack knit his brow. "Take him _now_, you mean?"

"_Zut_! Do not tell me you have a problem?" Renard looked crushed. "I do not know if I could live without the gain I'm sure he'd bring me, Jacky."

"I see." Jack's lids were low.

"Jack." Will's throat rasped, his voice was so dry. "Jack?"

Without a glance at Will, Jack extended a hand to Renard.

"You can have ' im. He's a blacksmith, beware."

Renard clasped Jack's hand. Floored, Will stared at those hands, then struck at the elbow of his bruiser. He couldn't get the right angle, though, and in an instant the second bruiser was on his other side, a huge hand about his throat. He couldn't move; couldn't even speak the hatred burning his tongue.

"I wish you," Renard said sunnily to Jack, "how do you say…a following wind?"

Grimacing, Jack grimaced buried his face in his tankard. The bruisers hauled Will to his feet and when Will struggled, Renard snapped, "_Trait le taire."_

Pain blossomed at the back of Will's head and black curtains closed over the world.

* * *

She was human no longer. She wasn't even alive. Every shred of warmth, reason, courage, every drop of blood, every life-sustaining organ, was stripped from her bones, leaving a terrible void. She was reduced to a pair of eyes and a throat-ripping shriek, a pair of iced lungs and a paralyzed form, a mindless outlet of horror.

For the fiddler's eyeballs, white and bare in their sockets, glared, while his blackened teeth stonily grinned. Gray strips of flesh stretched over his skull; stringy hair framed his ghoul's face. He was a medallion come to life, and his gaze was so hungry Elizabeth's knees gave, sending her between the spokes of a huge capstan turned by bent monsters. They didn't stop and she was shoved around, a dove lost among vultures.

Abruptly her heels caught on the lip of an open hatch and she tumbled backward into the dark, arms windmilling. She landed on her back only feet below the hatch's lip. She sat up, gasping, and realized that she was in the center of a taut tarp held by bony hands. Below, she caught the evil gleam of bare eyeballs above gaping skull noses, then the tarp snapped, and she went flying.

Up, up she went, twenty feet into the cold, thick air. Then she smacked the tarp again, tried to get off, but the white hands were yanking and, rough laughter in her ears, she careened upward again. The horrid, fluttering sails reached for her and she could only scream, waiting to fall.

Then an arm wrapped brutally about her waist and she was flying through the rigging, held against something hard. She glanced at her captor; she screamed again.

A wet growl came from the monster's mouth as he swung them over to the poop deck, where he landed. Elizabeth found herself released and landed hard, hearing him crackle down behind her. She fled around the helm and he followed, stopping when she stopped, glaring across the helm with foul intent in his eyes. Elizabeth feinted left; he matched her, then back the other way. Demented green eyes wild, he threw himself across the helm at her; she flinched, then rallied and wrenched the helm into a spin. Each passing knob knocked her enemy's chin, up, up, until his head was thrown back, his neck broken.

He grasped his own hair-streaked skull and yanked it back up into position; Elizabeth trembled at the popping of bones that filled the air. With another malevolent growl, his eyes fixed on her once more and she fled down the stairs and around...under...behind them. There she crouched, hunted, staring out at the hellish deck.

Bones crackled behind her and she turned with a cry. It was the monkey; black eyes glaring bare from its small skull, screeching, holding the medallion in a bone claw.

Her voice was spent. She ran for the doors she had fled only minutes before.

She ran straight into the waiting Barbossa who caught her and roughly forced her to face the decks of the _Black Pearl_. "Look!" he exclaimed. "The moonlight shows us for what we really are. We are not among the living and so we cannot die. But neither are we dead."

The crew was assembling itself before their captain and his captive, a sickening vision from the darkest corner of human imagination. Elizabeth quivered against Barbossa, breathing hard.

He grasped her shoulder and savagely turned her toward him. "For too long I've been parched 'a thirst and unable to quench it. Too long I've been starvin' t' death and haven't died."

Elizabeth stiffly retreated, her horrified eyes fixed on his terrible, pleading face. He followed.

"I feel nothin'…not the wind on my face, nor the spray of the sea, nor the warmth...of a woman's flesh…" He reached for her, hands infinitely starved. She lurched back into the moonlight, watching his following hand, which rotted in the moonlight.

"You'd best start believin' in ghost stories, Miss Turner," Captain Barbossa said coldly, then stepped fully into the moonlight. Exposed ligaments creaking, he stared into her glazed eyes. "You're in one."

He lifted a bottle of wine. He tugged the cork free with his teeth, spat it to the deck. Then he threw his head back and poured the wine into his open jaws; the red stuff trickled down and coated his white ribs like blood.

Choking, Elizabeth sprinted past him into her prison. He hurled the bottle against one of the doors; it shattered. He shoved the doors closed then looked to his silent crew and laughed. When they all laughed with him, he stopped. "What're you lookin' at?" he bellowed. "Back t'work!"

As the muttering pirates obeyed, Elizabeth pulled her knees to her chin and huddled deeply in her small corner. Beyond tears, she started at every shifting of the shadows, at every creak and groan.

She knew she would never, ever be safe again.

* * *

When Will's eyes opened, he was in darkness. Stinking darkness.

His first thought was of Jack, and he saw red. When the first wave of rage had passed, Will managed to look around.

He was on the floor of a tiny room and he couldn't spot the door. He had the sense of being deep inside something…and when the floor shifted gently beneath him, he knew he was in the bowels of a ship. There was creaking all around, but beyond that all was completely silent. His hands and feet were tied, and a gag cruelly tore at the corners of his mouth. He tried to wriggle forward, and discovered that his wrists were bound to something on the wall.

They'd certainly taken Jack's warning to heart.

And for all Will knew, he had been out for hours and was already on his way across the Atlantic toward bondage.

At his wit's end, Will went perfectly still. Only now he realized that the day Jack had come to Port Royal, a noose of betrayal and danger had been put around his throat. The trapdoor had dropped out from under Will when Elizabeth had been kidnapped and he had felt the noose beginning to bite his breath away ever since. Now the noose was going in for the kill and all Will could do was wait to die.

His despair was so profound, he didn't feel alarm when the door opened. He hardly squinted when a hand carefully set a lantern near his head; too fixed were his eyes on utter hopelessness.

When someone prodded his shoulder, though, he had the presence of mind to growl and turn.

Almond-shaped eyes in a devious face met his. The Oriental grinned briefly then stood to close the door. Will lifted his head to watch, and recognized the man's tunic. It was the slumping, tired Oriental he'd seen stumble into _The Faithful Bride_. Relief poured through him, _I must still be in Tortuga!_

How had this man gotten in? _But of course. Why would they need to guard me? I'm a complete nobody and the only people who know I'm here are the people who want me here. Except…_Will stared as the Oriental came back.

The man knelt down. "You understond me?"

Will nodded impatiently, ready to kill the man for trying to start a conversation without bothering to remove his torturous bindings.

"You al wit Jack Sparrow? You…was?"

Will nodded angrily.

The Oriental smiled at Will's scowl. "Feng no like 'im either. Wir you put this," the man held up a vial with a death head carved in the top, "in his dlink?"

"You mean kill him," Will tried to say. It came out like a moan. _I'll consider it…_

The Oriental _tsked_. "I untie you, if you aglee."

Will looked at the grinning death head.

"And if you tly escape without doing as agleed, I kiw you," the Oriental added.

Will nodded. The Oriental produced a dirk and cut the ropes at his ankles, then carefully, his gag. Will licked his lips and winced as the Oriental leaned over him and cut his wrists free. Then Will sat up, feeling a hundred years old, as the Oriental squatted and watched, dirk in one hand.

In that moment of silence, Will tucked loose strands of hair behind his ears and looked at the Oriental, fascinated for an instant by how the lantern light enhanced his face. The Oriental extended the vial slowly. Will took it.

"Come," the Oriental said, shoving his dirk into his belt and picking up the lantern by its ring.

Out the door they went, Will limping as blood entered his feet again. They were in a narrow passageway lit by lanterns hung on the ceiling. Down the passageway–_thump_–Will bumbled and hit the wall–up a ladder. The Oriental made Will go first. A bit further down a more lit passageway and up another ladder. As Will's body grew adjusted to the idea of moving, he could think. They must've had him on the orlop deck. One level down and he would've been stashed in the hold with all the crates.

Will climbed the last steps to the upper deck, the need to see that he was still in Tortuga swelling in his chest. He heard a yelp behind him and whirled around.

"Jack?"

"Who else?" the pirate said. He had a knife to the Oriental's throat. "I came t'spring you out, as you did me, back in Port Royal, yet it seems this one beat me t'you."

"You, rescue me? I thought you were happy to see me off to some obscene life in Spain."

"That's the problem with only ever doing black…smithy-things and practicing with all yer little swords, mate." His hat shadowed Jack's eyes, but his grin was blazing as ever. "You never thought it might be possible and plausible that I was workin' t'save both our hides."

"You were planning to come and get me." Will crossed his arms.

" 'A course! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to deal wit' little Bok Choy here."

"Wait!"

Jack's head snapped up at the fierceness of Will's tone, and his hand involuntarily quivered.

"Maybe I don't want you to kill him, _Jacky_. Maybe I like him better than I like you."

Jack's chin went down. Even in the shadow, his eyes were piercing as they fixed on Will. "What'd he want in return f'your freedom, fanatic?"

Will's jaw tightened. "Something I would't've done earlier…but that I wouldn't regret now."

"Is that so." The words were treacherously soft. "Well let's talk about that, you an' I." In one smooth motion Jack sliced the Oriental's throat and dropped him with an awful thud.

Will gaped. Jack wiped his blade clean on his breeches then slid the knife into his boot. Then he walked slowly to Will, who gritted his teeth and stood firm.

Faces inches away.

"What did he give you?" Jack asked.

Barely breathing, Will opened his hand. Jack plucked the vial from it, opened it, and sniffed.

"How original," he said breezily, tossing it over his shoulder. "I'd've smelled it before I drank it boy, n'then you'd be in hot water, aye you would. Now. Please, don't alarm yerself over that–" he pointed at the hatchway "–scene. When you live in this world, y'make enemies. Killin' is the only thing that'll stop his kind, an' I learned the hard way. Believe me, if there was another way I'd do it."

It was all quickly spoken in a low, soft voice that made Will want to stay very still. He nodded numbly.

"You've had 'nough excitement for one night, I think," Jack said. "We're going to tie little Bok Choy in whatever cranny they had you in, an' then we'll find a quiet place to wait till Gibbs comes through. Then we're outta here. Savvy?"

Exhaling, Will nodded.

Jack gave the softest sigh of relief and hurried to finish the deed. Will slowly followed.

**Please review!**


	19. A Tightening Noose

Thank you, Starling Rising, for your steady support. You rock my world!

Thanks to jedipati for betaing!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Will was relieved to find that sunlight bullied Tortuga into a pseudo-sane state. That much the better for a few hours of sleep and a breakfast, he felt inundated by a magnanimous tolerance that lasted the whole morning.

Then, at high noon, he and Jack arrived at Daizon's dock to inspect Mr. Gibb's handiwork. Will saw the exceedingly scraggly line of seamen standing for inspection along the dock and felt himself growing infuriated mental thorns.

Jack Sparrow didn't seem much happier, but his first mate was completely oblivious to this. "Feast your eyes, Captain," Gibbs exclaimed. "All of them faithful hands before the mast, every man worth his salt."

They paused and looked down with differing expressions at a bald, muscled sailor who glared up at them from his four-foot height. Clearly, anyone better than scrapings from the bottom of the barrel was too sane to sign on to a ship headed for the Island of Death.

"And crazy to boot," Gibbs added grandly.

Will was frowning. "So this is your able-bodied crew?"

Ignoring this, Jack proceeded down the line and stopped before an almost-ancient man with a blue and gold parrot on his shoulder. Despite the age that lined his face, the man stood straight and tall. "You, sailor," Jack addressed him, as Will and Gibbs came up.

"Cotton, sir," Gibbs supplied.

"Mr. Cotton. Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger, and almost certain death?" Jack brandished a green banana dramatically.

Blankly, Mr. Cotton looked to Gibbs. Mr. Cotton's parrot cocked its head.

"Mr. Cotton!" Jack barked. "Answer, man."

Gibbs leaned forward to see Jack, who refused stop glowering into Mr. Cotton's eyes. "He's a mute, sir. Poor devil had his tongue cut out. So he trained his parrot to talk for him. No one's yet figured how."

Mr. Cotton's wrinkled face twisted hideously, his mouth opening to reveal the stump of his tongue. Both Will and Jack flinched back. Jack instinctively half-mimicked Cotton, sticking his own tongue out, while a pained yet fascinated Will squinted.

Jack clutched his banana and turned with difficulty. "Mr. Cotton's– Parrot." The bright bird looked at him. "Same question."

The parrot squawked. "Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!"

Jack was incredulous. He purposefully didn't look at Will.

Gibbs leaned in again. "Mostly, we figure that means 'yes.'"

"Of course it does." Jack looked to Will. "Satisfied?"

"Well you've proved they're mad," the youth snapped.

"And what's the benefit for us?"

Both men turned toward the angry voice, which had sounded distinctively feminine.

Will's eyes were drawn to the end of the line. He stiffened. It was the… man? with the ragged hat from _The Faithful Bride_!

Slowly, Jack walked right up to the ragged hat. Will followed, watching impatiently as Jack tried to see under the hat, then grimaced.

The sailor let Jack pull the hat off. The beautiful brown face of a woman was revealed, but something was wrong: her jaw was mulishly set and she gazed at Jack with palpable hatred.

"Anamaria." Jack smiled.

She viciously slapped him.

"I suppose you didn't deserve that one either," said Will contemptuously.

"No, that one I deserved."

Anamaria nodded. "You stole my boat!"

He faced her. "Actually–"

She hit him again. He reeled, eyes wide. "Borrowed!" He turned back cautiously. "Borrowed without permission. But with every intention of bringing it back to you."

"But you didn't!"

"You'll get another one!" Jack's voice cracked.

Anamaria thrust an obstinate forefinger in Jack's face; he leaned back. "I _will_."

Will leaned helpfully over Jack's shoulder. "A better one," he said brightly.

"A better one!" Jack echoed.

Will pointed down the dock. "_That_ one."

"What one?" Jack asked Will.

At Will's nod, everyone turned toward the 'better' ship. It was the _Interceptor_, resting far out in the harbor.

"_That one_?" Jack growled. Will gave him a testy smile as all eyes turned their way.

Jack bowed his head, then faced Anamaria. "Aye," he managed. "That one." Pointing at the _Interceptor_ he added, "What say you?"

"Aye!" Anamaria hollered, and the rest of the crew chorused in agreement. They all clattered away down the dock for the lifeboat. Anamaria huffily grabbed her hat from Jack before following them.

"No, no, no, no," Gibbs sidled up to Jack. "It's frightful bad luck to have a woman on board, sir."

Quite out of sorts, Jack could face humans no more, and so stared up into the sky, stating, "It'll be far worse not to have her." He then turned and walked off, leaving Will and Gibbs alone to look up at the sky just in case they'd missed something.

* * *

Once they were sailing free, everyone felt better despite the fact that they were headed to an island that was impossible to find, under a captain who braided his goatee. The beginning of a voyage was contagiously exciting and Will found most of the sailors willing to begin teaching him the plethora of skills required to sail a ship. Gibbs in particular had much to teach: "Left-handed ropes are coiled against the sun, or it's bad luck! Anti-clockwise, y'see."

Will learned the sailors' names, Cotton, Marty, Moises, Kursar, Matelot, Tearlach, Duncan, Ladbroc, Crimp, Quartetto…the list of men went on, and Will's opinion of them up.

Jack was giving Will the cold shoulder, pretending he didn't exist which, for some perverse reason, made Will feel even more smug to have taken advantage of him for once. The pirate remained obstinately at the helm, glaring if Anamaria got too close, or acted too appreciative of the masts' heights. Always in his free hand was a compass and it wasn't for show; Jack looked at the compass more than he checked on Anamaria to make sure she wasn't eyeing the gouges in the rail and wincing.

The only problem Will had was that he'd glanced over Jack's shoulder once and seen for himself that the compass did not, in fact, point north. It just pointed in the direction Jack was muscling the ship, which could've been in circles.

As the sun set, though, many eyes were uneasily turned to the northwest, where a bank of clouds was pushing multiple snowy-pink heads up into the pale sky. The orange light of evening turned the undersides of the clouds a dramatic ink color, and by the time the sun was gone, a damp, disorganized wind was worrying the _Interceptor_'s sails and the clouds were no longer swelling up, but galloping, stretching, closer. The swells were growing, too, heralds of violence biting at the _Interceptor_'s hull.

Will saw Gibbs talk with Jack, and soon sailors were climbing the rigging to bind a sail or two. The dark storm was melting into the twilight sky, all distinction between the two slipping away. Suddenly the only sign that the storm didn't swallow the whole sky was that there was lighting to one side of the sky and none on the other.

Marty and Kursar were uneasily lighting the lamps, glancing frequently between the fretting canvas and the yellow lightning that frequently writhed above, in the storm's belly. "A storm, the first night," short Marty spoke up to his friend as they passed Will.

"Back luck, 'tis," Kursar muttered.

Will heard a faint hissing. He had enough time to wonder what it was before a hand of wind slapped the _Interceptor_, coating every surface with cold rain. The _Interceptor_ reeled and her crew along with her and suddenly Will's old fear of ships was back. It was frightening to have an uncaring lump of wood, nails, and glue be the only thing keeping him from falling into the massive, unfathomable monster that was the sea.

Blinking furiously against the drops stinging his face, he made his way along the rail until he was near Gibbs, who was bellowing orders to those up top. Gravity pushed down on Will's shoulders as the _Interceptor_ climbed a black swell, and then Will's belly and head seemed to float as the vessel slid into a trough. Sickened but too anxious to care, he stuck next to Gibbs as the sailor bustled to keep the _Interceptor_ intact.

The gale mounted to a howl and arms of water began to slide arms over the _Interceptor_'s heaving deck. Lightning jerked the world in and out of sight. Water filled Will's shoes, his clothing, his ears, his eyes, his nose, leeching warmth out of him until he was too cold to think about the black, black sea that seemed to want to swallow them all alive. He had never been so insignificantly placed in such a powerful palm; he was nothing; the ship was nothing. Just a soon-to-be rotted leaf twirling in a body of water hundreds of miles wide.

It was in this numb place that an unlikely exhilaration grew. In the place beyond reason and the pitfalls it created, Will rose and fell with the sea, felt the writhing ship quivering beneath his squashy shoes, grabbed a mast…both felt and heard the sails straining to join the careening gusts in the sky, and realized he had never lived before.

It was foolish to resist the sea's rage, he vaguely realized, for it was an invitation to be risen to, a potential dance partner offering a wicked hand. Fear was just the spice that quickened the heartbeat and flushed muscles with readiness. To not think, to realize that worrying was pointless, to surrender was utterly emancipating, and with freedom came peace beyond understanding…opening the door to the most surreal enjoyment.

As his mind faintly came to this conclusion, Will helped Gibbs wrestle with a rope, tugging as the sails resisted them. The rest of the crew bumbled about the best they could; the only firmly placed human aboard was Jack, who stood straight at the helm, compass in hand.

A wave crested over the railing into Will's and Gibbs' faces, driving them off their feet and across the deck. They fetched up against the far railing with the wave, and tangled, struggled up as the wave receded. Will, still holding the rope, rushed back, and Gibbs followed and helped him secure it. Will looked through the curtains of water falling from the sails, to Jack.

"How can we sail to an island that nobody can find with a compass that doesn't work?" he demanded over the shrieking wind.

"Aye, the compass doesn't point north," Gibbs shouted, "but we're not tryin' to find north, are we?" Then he looked up at the soaked sails, eyes flashing. "That fool will have us lose the canvas and the masts besides!"

He stumbled up the tilting deck Jack. "We should drop canvas, sir!"

Jack's hat poured water and his face was taut with concentration, half of him lost in the ship and the storm. He was untouchable. "She can hold a bit longer!"

Gibbs reeled. "What's in yer head that's put you in such a fine mood, Captain?"

Jack grinned, wide eyes fixed on some invisible prey. "We're catching up."

* * *

_His crew surrounded them, a circle of horror. _

_Barbossa's hand was around her throat. She couldn't breathe. She could barely heft the knife; her entire body had turned from flesh to useless, heavy clay. His rotted face was so close to hers, so transformed by rage and hatred; her very ability to think abandoned her. _

"_You lied!" he snarled, and she would have choked on his breath if she'd been able to breathe. "I asked yer name an'you lied, you–"_

_She didn't hear the foul names he spat in her face; all she heard was her own stumbling heartbeat. Dark fuzz was beginning to cuddle her vision. He was going to kill her and unless she rallied, she'd die without an iota of sprit or courage to her name. _

_So with every last bit of strength she had, she stabbed him. She felt something crunch beneath the knife; something else wetly gave way, but as revulsion rose in her throat, Barbossa was howling, mouth gaping, strings of spittle stretching between his jaws. His jaws opened wider and wider and wider until all she could see was his black mouth and she knew he was going to bite–_

Gagging, Elizabeth wrenched herself free of the nightmare and huddled facedown, clutching middle as her gagging turned to dry heaving. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she stared at the grimy floor to reassure herself that she was awake now.

She bore her body's rebellion, waiting until her belly quit heaving, and then she rolled onto her side, feeling her back press against a wall. The dreary white light outside the _Pearl_'s windows indicated day, and made her squint her still-streaming eyes. All she could hear was the grumbling of the _Pearl_ and her crew.

They'd barely escaped a storm last night, and the rough water and distant lightning had taken Elizabeth's emotions out of her control; thus the nightmare. She was partially amazed that she'd slept at all. And she was still a mess.

She put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobbing that had seized her chest. What was the use of trying to tidy up her strangling mind? She was going to die anyway. Her only satisfaction was that her death would leave Barbossa and all his poxy crew just as cursed as they were, if not more so. She just hoped she was dead before Barbossa realized he still couldn't taste his own vile mouth. And then she was shocked that she should hope for something so grim.

She should have been mourning all the proper things that maidens mourned when on their way to being sacrificed on heathen altars, such as never marrying a true love, never holding her own child, never getting to wear that one silk gown made for the ball. Elizabeth snorted minutely. Wearing gowns was death these days anyway…

It just wasn't proper for her to be thinking so flippantly, and she hated it. She did feel awful when she thought of never seeing her father again, or her friends, but it was a vague sort of grief. They were so far away, so different from the monsters whose presence engulfed her mind. And she'd stabbed a man. She was a sheltered goldfish that had been tossed into a coral reef: she'd left everything behind and her new world had shattered her and tossed the pieces in a heap. She'd stabbed him.

She'd stabbed him. She, Elizabeth Swann, Fine Lady, Governor's Daughter, Potential Fiancée to a Commodore.

That night had ruined her capacity to be conventional in any way. The knife-stab had ripped away her innocence and the tour of the moonlit deck had eaten away her mind, heart, and soul. She had not realized how brutally hungry horror was. She was decimated by it, inside and out.

And now she was going to die, bearing Will Turner's name. She wished she had asked him earlier about the medallion, and so learned how potent it was. The part of her that still cared for the little boy with the traumatized eyes was glad, though, that he wasn't here, in her place. The rest of her wished she'd never set eyes on him.

But, she'd stabbed a man. The way it had felt…she curled up tighter.

She'd stabbed him.

A sonorous bang jolted her upright. The floor shuddered beneath her, then was still. At the same time, the barest suggestion of a shadow was cast on through right side windows, a long strip of faint black. It slid over the floor, the table, the candles, and out the back windows.

Grabbing the nearest chair, Elizabeth pulled herself to her feet and moved to a window. The outside of the glass dripped water and her breath fogged the inside. Beyond, everything was shrouded in fog, but she could see what had to be a mast jutting from the water. Beyond it, the ribs of a hull clawed upward. Similar sights crowded all around; when she looked out of the back windows, she could see they were moving slowly down a corridor formed by the remains of a thousand ships.

She stared.

Some time later, the white, white fog swallowed the graveyard of ships and Elizabeth was barely breathing, for the _Pearl_ had gone eerily silent. There was hardly a creak to be heard.

The fog on the right looked bruised for some reason. Elizabeth, face close to the glass, peered at the dark splotches, and caught her first glimpse of the Isla de Muerta.

**Input is very much appreciated!**


	20. Into the Monster's Maw

**A/N:** A huge thank you to meowbooks and Starling Rising for their steady support. Every time I get a review from either of you, I feel incredibly lucky and I am so grateful for the time you've given my work!

Thank you to jedipati for taking the time to beta this!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

The Isla de Muerta was knobby, ink-black rock completely devoid of green and washed by gray waves. It stretched left, right, and upwards. Slowly, Elizabeth's heart began to speed and her head cleared, leaving her raw and utterly terrified.

The doors clanked. A blast of cold, wet air made her turn.

Pintel and Ragetti stood there again, but others stood behind them. Their faces were grim; Pintel held a coil of rope. "Time to go, poppet," he said.

They made her climb up to the quarterdeck. Her knees almost gave out. A lean pirate whom the others called Twigg took the rope and, almost gently, bound Elizabeth's hands with a baffling combination of knots, so it was an unfathomable mess about her wrists.

The entire crew had gathered below. The men stood perfectly silent, gazing up at her with a mixture of reverence, hatred, and longing. She took one look at them, then kept her eyes fixed inches from her feet, taking deep breaths. Embarrassment burned her cheeks when she remembered the gaping bodice of her dress.

Her tension was bizarrely broken by Ragetti, who bounced on the right, carving excitedly at his wood eye and chanting, "Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Heavy footsteps approached her from behind and somewhere, his monkey chittered. Her neck prickled. What was he going to do to her?

She glimpsed his hands as they came over her shoulders, and then he was ever so softly drawing her loose hair back over her shoulders. She didn't know whether to fume or sob. Then, down came the medallion, lowered slowly to rest on her nightgown. She stiffened when Barbossa fastened the clasp and his fingers brushed her neck.

Without any orders, everyone moved to make a path to the rail. Barbossa led the way, and Elizabeth followed. At the rail, Barbossa stood aside and gestured her forward; she saw six longboats were floating in readiness below. Twigg climbed down first, then Elizabeth was lowered in a makeshift sling. Twigg guided her to the front of the longboat, and sat her down. Eight other pirates climbed into the longboat and to her relief, they crowded on the other seats, leaving her alone at the head of the boat.

As the rest of the crew climbed down to their respective longboats, Elizabeth stared at the looming black monstrosity that faded in an out of sight and wondered how they were going to kill her. On a huge rock table on the peak of the island, a truly icy death in clinging white oblivion? Perhaps there was a temple of sorts, like she'd read about in a book on the Mayans…a temple complete with endless stairs.

Barbossa climbed down last, into the foremost boat. And then, with a groaning of wood and slapping of oars, the cursed pirates of the _Black Pearl_ surged toward the Isla de Muerta, ashen sacrifice trapped, cowed, in their midst.

* * *

The _Interceptor_ had proved herself.

She emerged basically unscathed from the storm into a foggy morning; having been hurled miles in the right direction thanks to the gale and her captain, who was the only one who knew what the right direction was. The storm had been a blessing: if it hadn't rushed the _Interceptor_ along her way, she'd still be toiling in open water instead of uneasily creeping through a graveyard of ships.

"_Dead men tell no tales!_" Cotton's parrot squawked in its Cockney accent, its voice ringing flatly in the mists. Minor repairs completed, most of the crew lined the rails, leaving Jack to take them through the treacherous stretch of water, all waiting tensely to hear some submerged wreck slam into the _Interceptor_'s hull.

Will had never seen anything like this. He pictured Elizabeth staring out at the dreams that had been forced into nightmares, and tensed with the need to act. Gibbs had told them they were very close to the aptly Island of Death, but he had yet to see it.

Gibbs stood beside him. "Puts a chill in the bones how many honest sailors have been claimed by this passage."

'Chill' didn't describe what Will was feeling, but he opted for silence, watching a rotted keel tangled with a mainmast slip by.

Everyone started when something thudded against the hull. A submerged wreck. Lips tightened and jaws clenched as there was a groan, then a dull snap.

Then silence fell again. Everyone looked to Jack, who looked completely unworried. Everyone breathed again.

Will frowned over the side; sleek sharks had been stirred up just beneath the water's surface. They swam lazily in a patient manner that was very uncomfortable to behold, turning their hammer-like heads this way and that. Will was glad to follow Gibbs away from the rail.

He turned to watch Jack.

Jack had a new friend. Mr. Cotton had taken to standing two feet behind and to the right of Jack; close enough to watch Jack and his compass. Jack didn't tell him to leave but he didn't seem to enjoy the company either, if his awkwardness as he checked and stowed his compass was any indication. He focused resolutely ahead.

Will turned to Gibbs. "How's it that Jack came by that compass?"

The weathered first mate stopped to tug at some rigging. "Not a lot's known about Jack Sparrow 'fore he showed up in Tortuga with a mind to go after the treasure of the Isla de Muerta." He moved to the mainmast. "That was before I'd met him. Back when he was captain of the _Black Pearl_." He lifted his canteen to his lips.

Will whirled. "What?"

Gibbs' eyes went wide, and he lowered his canteen, barely warding off a choking fit.

Will looked to Jack with new eyes. "He failed to mention that."

"He plays things closer to the vest now," said Gibbs quickly, "and a hard-learned lesson it was. See, three days out in the adventure, the first mate comes to him and says, 'Everything's an equal share; that should mean to location of the treasure, too.' So, Jack gives up the bearings.

"That night, there was a mutiny."

Will's brow wrinkled.

"They marooned Jack on an island and left him to die, but not before he'd gone mad with the heat."

"Ah." Will glanced around. "So that's the reason for all of the . . ." He bugged his eyes, leaned unsteadily back, and loosely gestured.

"Reason's got nothin' t' do with it," said Gibbs grimly. He sat down, and Will did as well. They faced each other intensely.

"Now, Will, when a pirate's marooned, he's given a pistol with a single shot. One shot. Well that won't do much good huntin' or t' be rescued. But after three weeks of starvin' belly and thirst, that pistol starts to look real friendly." Gibbs lifted two fingers like a pistol between their faces.

"But Jack," Gibbs continued, "he escaped the island, an'he still has that single shot. Oh, he won't use it though, save on one man: his mutinous first mate."

"Barbossa," Will breathed.

"Aye."

"How did Jack get off the island?"

"Well, I'll tell ye," Gibbs said eagerly. "He waded out into the shallows and waited there three days an'three nights, till all manner of sea creatures 'came acclimated to his presence. And on the fourth morning, he roped himself a couple a' sea turtles, lashed em together, and made a raft."

Will frowned at Gibbs' exhilarated expression. "He roped himself a couple of sea turtles."

"Aye, sea turtles."

Silence fell.

"What did he use for rope?"

Gibbs' mouth opened, but nothing came out. He puckered.

_Thud_. Both men turned quickly as boots stopped before them. Jack Sparrow stood above them like a god, head tilted back as he gazed at Will.

"Human hair," he said softly. "From my back."

Gibbs grinned at Will, who remained dubious. Jack looked up. "Let go the anchor!" he ordered.

"Aye, Captain, aye!"

Will stood and looked around. A black stone barrier had appeared before the bowsprit, and the shipwrecks had disappeared.

"_Young_ Mr. Turner and I are to go to shore." Jack walked off.

Gibbs followed. "Captain, what if the worst should happen?"

Jack stopped. "Keep to the Code."

"Aye," Gibbs said, terribly pleased. "The Code." He marched off after Jack.

Will stepped to where they had just paused, and leaned against the railing, watching their receding forms with narrowed eyes.

* * *

Again, Jack and Will faced each other across the length of the lifeboat. This time, Jack had the oars and Will the lantern, and Will didn't know if he liked the arrangement: he had no control. Except if he decided to douse the light, or toss the entire lantern somewhere, of course. But these options were not empowering at all. He decided to face forward and see where the pirate was taking him.

Jack put his back to Will and pulled at the oars. The anchored _Interceptor_ receded into the mists. For some long moments, both passengers eyed the rough stone of the island, Will with impatience and Jack for guidance.

"To your left, Mr. Turner," Jack said softly.

Will turned and saw the outline of three black masts. The _Black Pearl_. He twisted toward Jack's rippling back. "Are you just going to pass it by? Miss Swann might still be on board!"

Jack winced to himself. "Now you're bein' a loudmouthed ignoramus. Keep yer noise down. Aye, we're going t'pass it by. An' no, I'm not giving my reasons." He turned to smile widely. "You're going t'have to trust me."

Will's expression spoke his emotions very plainly. "Just tell me why you didn't bring anyone else, Jack."

Jack turned away. "Wot, you want more company? Ah, the deaf, loudmouthed, mistrusting ignoramus is now a deaf, loudmouthed, distrusting, _lonely_ ignoramus."

Will crossed his arms and angrily stared ahead.

Soon, rock appeared on both the right and left, and then soared up to form the gaping mouth of a giant cavern. A sharper cold enveloped them as they entered. Dripping echoed all around; the ceiling had to be a hundred feet up. The circle of orange lantern light soon revealed a channel that narrowed into blackness, Jack, glancing frequently back, guided them in. The walls came so close, the boat barely fit and trickles of water were everywhere, snaking down the stone, slowly increasing the size of the occasional stalactite. This was true dankness, Will thought to himself.

"Do you know where you're going?" he asked, as a new passageway was revealed on the right.

Jack propelled them past the opening. "I got us here, didn't I?"

**Any thoughts you have are very welcome. :)**


	21. Hide and Seek

**A/N:** There's about ten billion separating-line-things in this chapter! I did this to keep the POV changes from sliding into each other and being confusing. If these lines have a more bad effect than a good effect, please feel free to tell me!

THANK YOU to meowbooks and Starling Rising for their reviews!! And as always, a huge thank you to jedipati for being my beta.

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Twigg dragged Elizabeth from the longboat by her bound wrists. Her bare feet sank in cool, black sand. Torches half-illuminated the underground shore, and the pirates bearing the torches were rapidly disappearing into multiple passageways. Their rough voices reverberated painfully. Dreadlocked Khoeler jostled Elizabeth from behind and Twigg rushed forward, towing Elizabeth behind him. She struggled to keep her footing as she careened through the passage's twists and turns, tugged brutally by her bindings, her nose filled with the immortals' stench.

Twigg halted so abruptly Elizabeth almost ran into him. He stepped aside, gleefully giving her a full view of the cavern that now lay before them.

It was a thing of wild tales that no one believes. Light struggling through breaks in the stalactite-coated ceiling illuminated endless piles of coins, chests, mirrors, tableware, bolts of silk, statues, and jewelry. All around, the pirates streamed down into the cavern, tossing their plunder onto the piles without glancing at it. Their guffawing filled rang in the chamber's endless secret coves and passages, smacking Elizabeth's ears as she looked toward the cavern's center.

Surrounded by a moat of inky water, the greatest plunder-coated hill swelled upward. At its peak stood a stone chest, closed and glaring in the a single shaft of daylight. Barbossa stood over the chest, a black bear absorbing the light, watching over everything like a king. Waiting for her.

No, there would be no endless stairs carved by slaves of ancient civilizations to climb, but this was worse. Elizabeth had been chilled, but panic flooded her with warmth. She wasn't ready to die. Something new inside her had just broken, and she now knew it was hope she hadn't realized was there. She had been hoping for a rescue the whole time she had believed herself resigned. Stripped now of this last ghost of optimism, she became truly helpless. Her sight swam and every inch of her burned; her knees quivered.

"Move." Khoeler gave her a hard shove.

* * *

"Ten years 'a hoarding swag," Pintel exclaimed.

"Now we finally get to spend it," Ragetti warbled, and giggling, the two pirates dumped the contents of a trunk to the floor.

Dresses, shoes, a chemise, and parasols thumped to the ground and the pirates' laughter faded. They tossed the trunk away. His frown fading, Pintel picked up one of the white parasols. Ragetti held one of the gowns to himself.

"Once we're quit 'a th' curse, we'll be rich men," Pintel said, closed parasol resting on his shoulder like a musket. Ragetti dropped the gown and picked up one of the other parasols. He opened it and copied Pintel. The delicate material caught daylight and glowed like a harvest moon.

"An' you can buy an eye what actually fits an' is made 'a glass," Pintel continued compassionately.

"This one does splinter somethin' terrible," Ragetti quavered, and pitifully began to rub his wood eye; it creaked.

"Stop rubbin' it!" Pintel exclaimed. Then, "Oh." He became a broomstick, a frightened smile on his face.

The bosun glared at Pintel, the raised scars on his face turning the fearsome expression horrible. He eventually turned away with a grunt of disgust.

Scowling, Pintel lifted his parasol and smacked Ragetti as hard as he could.

* * *

The lantern's circle of yellow glow suddenly illuminated a small jutting shore. Will grimaced as a crab waved its claws defensively, but then the light reached beyond the crustacean and Will froze.

A skeleton sprawled belly-down, its jaw wide in a soundless scream, a sword stabbed straight through its spine. Neck prickling, Will tore his eyes away and looked ahead. "What Code is Gibbs to keep to if the worst should happen?"

"The Pirate's Code." Jack glanced back. "Any man who falls behind is left behind."

"No heroes among thieves, aye?" said Will scornfully.

Jack carefully maneuvered the rowboat through a lumpy arch that extended its arms from the ceiling. "You know, for having such a bleak outlook on pirates, you're well on your way to becoming one."

When the only response was stony silence, Jack continued: "You sprung a man from jail. Commandeered a ship of the Fleet, sailed with a buccaneer crew out of Tortuga..." He twisted about on his bench and looked over Will's shoulder. The young man was leaning forward, mesmerized. The floor beneath the clear water was coated deeply with gold doubloons, and the coins caught the light of the lantern, sending ripples dancing over both men's faces.

"And," Jack added, "you're completely obsessed with treasure."

They edged around a corner into a wide cavern. A beach on one side was cluttered with longboats, and a faint uproar echoed off the rocks. The lifeboat soon scraped onto the black shore and Will leaped out to haul it up. Jack lurched onshore and as he clinked past Will, the younger man murmured fiercely, "That's not true. I am _not_ obsessed with treasure."

Jack was already scrambling up a narrow path. Will followed and found him illuminated, perched before a long, low opening in the wall.

Jack's eyes gleamed. "Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate."

A rough voice echoed: "Gentlemen! The time has come!" Roaring voices filled the cavern in response.

Will knelt down beside Jack and gaped.

"Our salvation is nigh!" Captain Barbossa shouted. "Our torment is near an end."

Will stiffened. "Elizabeth!"

She stood with Barbossa at the peak of a hill, small beside the passionately gesturing captain. Her eyes darted over the assembly like a trapped rabbit's.

* * *

"For ten years, we've been tested and tried, and each man jack of you here has proved his mettle a hundred times over." Barbossa threw his hands up. "And a hundred times again!"

"Suffered, I have!" Ragetti cried.

"Punished, we were, the lot of us," Barbossa ardently agreed. He pounded a fist in his hand. "Disproportionate to our crime! Here it is!" He shoved the cover off the chest with one booted foot; the thick slab of stone slammed aside.

Elizabeth jumped back then gawked, squinting. The chest brimmed with medallions, each grinning just as hatefully as the one about her neck.

Reverent silence fell.

Barbossa dragged a filthy hand through the clinking coins. "The cursed treasure of Cortéz himself. Every last piece that went astray," he clutched a handful, "we have returned." He let each medallion fall one by one into the chest. "Save for this!" He pointed to Elizabeth and a louder roar went up.

* * *

"Jack!" Will frantically tried to lunge forward, his hands, dislodging several coins, but Jack hauled him back out of sight.

"Not yet. We wait for the opportune moment."

"Eight hundred and eighty-one we found, but despaired of ever finding the last," Barbossa's voice continued to rant.

Will followed Jack back down the path. "When's that?" he demanded, then spat, "When it's the greatest profit to you?"

Jack went still, his eyes very wide. Mechanically he turned on Will. "May I ask you something? Have I ever given you reason not to trust me?"

His intense face was in Will's taut one; the younger man didn't respond.

"Do us a favor," Jack said through clenched teeth. "I know it's difficult for you, but please, stay here." He began to turn away, then paused. "And try not to do anything...stupid." He gave Will one of his placating smiles then shuffled rapidly off.

_Let's just say it's a matter of leverage, mate_. Will's anger rose as he heard Jack's secretive words again in his mind. He stood with fists clenched for five seconds before his face cleared. He rushed to the shore.

* * *

"And who among us has paid th' blood sacrifice owed to the heathen gods?" Barbossa shouted.

"_Us_!"

"And whose blood must yet be paid?"

"_Hers_!" Weapons and fingers pointed at Elizabeth, who shook visibly.

"You know the first thing I'm gonna do after the curse is lifted?"

The pirates laughed, nudging each other and looking at Elizabeth.

Barbossa turned to her. "Eat a whole bushel of apples," he said softly, then grabbed her by the back of her neck and forced her to bend over the chest. Below, the pirates began to chant, a wordless, quickening assault of voices. He grabbed a stone dagger that lay on the medallions. The blade was pale, sharp. Over the chanting he pronounced, "Begun by blood. By blood undone."

* * *

_Barbossa you're the son of the biggest fool ever to_–_wait!_ _Bug–_Jack whirled in time to recognize Will before Will's oar clobbered him. He dropped like a stone.

"Sorry, Jack." Will tossed the oar on top of the pirate. "I'm not gonna be your leverage."

* * *

Barbossa could feel the maid trembling as he grasped her medallion and yanked it off her. He cradled one of her slender hands, and then used the dagger to make a cut in the soft skin below her thumb. She went rigid as blood welled in a two-inch long line, then stared at him as he placed the medallion in her palm.

"That's it?" she whimpered.

"Waste not," he told her, and smiled at the horror that filled her dark eyes. He closed her fist about the medallion.

Elizabeth gasped at the pain. _Now what?_ Her nightmare would come true, except Barbossa would not bite in his rage, he'd, he'd…she couldn't breathe right. She'd have an entire disappointed crew of male monsters itching to take their rage out on her. She was beyond saving, beyond trying to be brave, beyond even thinking. She was the epitome of _doomed_.

Barbossa turned both their hands downward, and then forced her fingers open. The medallion fell.

The medallion's impact was thunderous in the sudden quiet. Barbossa released Elizabeth and stepped away, eyes closed expectantly. The stillness held, then stretched awkwardly as the pirate crew all watched themselves for signs of change.

Barbossa's eyes opened.

"Did it work?" Khoeler looked about.

Ragetti turned to Pintel. "I don't feel no different."

"How do we tell?" Pintel demanded.

Barbossa rolled his eyes. From his sash he pulled a long-muzzled pistol free, firing it in the same motion. Pintel rocked as the bullet pierced his heart. Horrified, he stared down at the charred hole in his coat.

Khoeler broke the stunned silence. "You're not dead!"

"No." Pintel grinned joyfully, then looked up at Barbossa. He frowned, pointed. "He _shot_ me!"

"It didn't work," Ragetti quavered.

Barbossa tucked his pistol away. "The curse is still upon us!" Twigg cried.

Barbossa examined the crimson staining the edge of the knife then wheeled on Elizabeth, who was numbly inspecting her wound, and seized her arm. "You, maid! Your father, what was his name?" He dropped the knife, clutched her shoulders, and shook her hard. "Was your father William Turner?"

Her eyes gleamed and her mouth, garish in her white face, curled upward at the corners. "No."

"Where's his child?" He shoved her. "The child that sailed from England eight years ago-" he brandished the medallion in her face "-the child in whose veins flows the blood of William Turner? _Where_?"

His face was contorted, his voice had risen to a hysterical volume, and his gaze was cold enough to kill. But Elizabeth Swann drew herself up and, consuming the very last dregs of the spunk that had driven a father to headaches, she stared Captain Barbossa straight in the eye and didn't say a word.

Baring his rotted teeth, he viciously backhanded her with the fist that held the bloodstained medallion. The pain was all it took to shatter her strained consciousness and everything went black…until she began to tumble. The rough fall to the bottom of the hill brought her back and by the time she had landed inches from the water, she was awake enough to hear what could have been the medallion clink behind her. Beyond that, she could do nothing except keep her eyes shut to hold back tears of pain.

Five yards away, deep in the shadows, Will Turner breathed shallowly with rage and shock. Bent in half, he slipped out and into the moat, clenching his teeth against the cold water.

**Thank you for reading! :)**

* * *

Do you like to laugh and be shown intriguing sides of things? Then read lady angst's _Another Knock on the Head. _It will brighten your day!


	22. A Not So Graceful Exit

**A/N: **Thank you to Starling Rising, meowbooks, and jedipati for your reviews! :D

Thank you to jedipati for betaing this.

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

The huge, scar-decorated bosun turned a terrible glare on Pintel and Ragetti. "You two! You brought us the wrong person!"

"No!" Pintel protested fearfully when the rest of the crew shouted in agreement. "She had the medallion. She's the proper age!"

"She said her name was Turner," Ragetti added.

Elizabeth was too tired to move, but her ears refused to stop listening. So she waited for them to remember that it was she who had ruined it all. Then they would plot her death and for some morbid reason, she wanted to know what it was. _Perhaps…so I won't be surprised when they…grab me and–_

Something shockingly wet and cold grabbed her face. It stuck below her nose, muffling her shriek. Body reeling under yet another bust of adrenaline, she stared at the face floating in the moat only a foot from hers, wondering for an insane instant if some cave-dwelling creature had come to drag her off to its home for a meal or worse. But the emerging cheekbones, oddly tanned, were familiar beneath the drips of water…and yes, the brown of the eyes. _Will?_ she whispered into his palm.

He gave her a small smile she'd never seen before, and motioned for her to be silent. He lifted his hand and hope blazed again in Elizabeth's heart, making it swell so big she had to move or it would explode. She quickly sat halfway up. _The medallion!_ She twisted, Will's fingers trailing from her cheek, and there it was, smiling in the twinkling back sand. In an instant she had it, and then she was swinging her legs into the icy water.

* * *

Barbossa had a dangerous situation on his hands. He stood alone, watching his crew struggle to come to terms with what had happened.

"I think she lied to us," Ragetti was saying.

Twigg was the first one to turn on his captain. "You brought us here for nothin!"

The pirates bellowed, but Barbossa bellowed louder. "I won't take questioning or second guesses, not from the likes a' you, Master Twigg!"

"Who's to blame here?" Khoeler demanded. "Every decision you've made has led us from bad to worse!"

Mallot, a pirate with stringy hair straggling from under a tri-cornered hat, pointed at Barbossa. "It was you who sent Bootstrap to the depths!"

The pirates were almost howling now.

The bosun unsheathed his sword. "And it's you," he lunged catlike up the pile, "who brought us here in the first place!"

The crew agreed again and weapons flashed. This was the moment of truth.

Barbossa drew his own sword and it flashed hungrily. "If any coward here dare challenge me, let him speak! Mmm?" He jabbed at the bosun, who slowly, slowly bowed his head and retreated. Miserably, everyone stowed his weapons and looked around.

"I say we cut her throat and spill all her blood," Khoeler suggested practically. "Just in case."

Everyone liked this. Barbossa was not so foolish as to refuse his crew this useless deed, and he looked forward to plying the knife himself, but a screech caught his attention. He spotted his monkey across the cavern, perched on a stone, pointing to a dark passage.

His body was likely reacting with alarm, but Barbossa didn't care. One look and he knew she was gone, but that wasn't the worst of it. "The medallion!" he shouted. "She's taken it! Get after her, you feckless pack of ingrates!"

Furiously the immortals obeyed. Pintel grabbed Ragetti's arm. "Let's go t'the landin'! She'll've hidden in on a' the boats!" Ragetti giggled in anticipation and they rushed back through the twisting passages with their mates, bursting out into the damp sand.

Others were already poking in the longboats, holding up rippling torches. There were no startled female screams…yet.

"Where are the oars?" someone cried.

There was a bewildered pause, and then dozens of hands were frantically searching the interiors of the boats and the surrounding beach. "No oars here!" came the cry.

"The oars have gone missing!" The bosun boomed. "Find them!"

Useless scrambling abounded. They kicked the sand, hoping to stub their toes on buried wood, shoved their hands between stalagmites, hoping to get splinters. Their torches wobbled, the water lapped secretively at the shore, and they found nothing.

Then Ragetti found one, held in the hand of one Jack Sparrow, who minced straight out onto the beach and lurched to a halt

"You!" Shocked, Ragetti pointed. Pintel arrived with the others. They all gaped at Jack; he returned the expression.

"You're supposed to be dead!" Pintel finally said.

"Am I not?" Jack vaguely looked at himself. "Oh." He turned as if to mosey off, but pirates jammed the passageway and the muzzles of pistols and tips of their swords greeted him. He turned back to find a similar array of weaponry on display. Pintel balefully cocked his pistol.

"Palulay." As if he could block a bullet with his finger, Jack held his pointer between himself and the muzzle of Pintel's pistol. Then he winced and looked away, fist clenched in annoyed disappointment.

He turned back. "Palu-li-la-la-lulu..."

Pintel and Ragetti exchanged an incredulous glance.

"Parlili," Jack struggled, "parsnip, parsley, partner, partner . . ."

Ragetti's face brightened. "Parlay?"

"That's the one!" Jack straightened. "Parlay." He grinned. "Parlay!"

Pintel turned murderously on Ragetti, who looked at his feet. "Parlay?" Pintel grated. "Damn to the depths whatever mutton-head that thought up parlay!" He viciously shoved his gun back into Jack's face.

Jack's eyes almost crossed, but he unsteadily pushed the muzzle down with his finger before his eyeballs could rotate all the way. "That would be the French."

* * *

Elizabeth watched Will out of the corner of her eye and shoved three oars into the water.

The boat rocked. She remembered Will's long-ago confession of a fear of floating vessels, but he was still rowing like a possessed man, head down, movements quick and purposeful. Either he was too focused to be afraid, or he wasn't afraid any more. She was inclined to believe the latter. His shirt and breeches were torn, and he was still wearing that rust-colored neck-cloth from that morning when he'd refused to call her Elizabeth. There were rings under his eyes and his form filled his clothing more than before; he'd come through much and it had changed him.

Nothing outside the caves had changed since she'd left the _Pearl_, except the way she felt. She rejoiced that her sickening dread was gone, smiling to herself as she shoved a few more oars free. She had never been so happy about anything in her whole life; the pain in her hand didn't even bother her.

A bowsprit emerged from the fog ahead, clean and smartly painted. Elizabeth quickly removed more oars, watching with delight as the _Interceptor_ appeared. It was so comfortingly civilized. She saw a small figure on the forecastle, and heard a faint yell. Minutes later they were bumping the sleek hull, and ropes had been thrown down. Faces were peering down, but Elizabeth reached for the last oars.

"No, Miss Swann, you should get on board," Will said between gasps. "I'll take care of those." He quickly secured one of the ropes, nimbly tying some knot, and then stood, legs moving easily with the wobbling of the boat. He offered her his hand.

It was very tanned, she noticed. "Thank you." She carefully took it and stood, her eyes down. He helped her step over to the ladder, and when she reeled, it was he who steadied her. Now completely baffled, she lifted her skirts and started onto the rope ladder. She was less steady than he was, and she'd been on water twice as many times!

She wondered for a moment if she'd feel his hands on her waist, but they never came; he was busy tossing the last oars over the side. She quickly ascended, pulling herself wearily over the rail and wondering why no one was helping her, or exclaiming with joy. Will had said nothing; she hadn't asked, but she'd assumed…who else but Norrington would be able to find her? Besides, the _Interceptor_ was a British ship.

As she set her sore soles on the smooth deck, she looked up, and her heart sank.

No relieved Norrington. No overjoyed father. Not even a uniform, blue or red; just silent dirty sailors dressed like beggars. Staring at her. She sagged back against the rail. "Not more pirates!"

One of them stepped forward, his honest, face very familiar. "Welcome aboard, Miss Elizabeth."

She gaped. "Mr. Gibbs?" He smiled and nodded. Then his eyes went over her shoulder. Will was clambering aboard. "Hey boy," he said sharply, "where be Jack?"

"Jack!" Elizabeth looked into Will's suddenly stormy face. "Jack Sparrow?"

Will said to Gibbs, "He fell behind." Then he had Elizabeth by the shoulders and he was propelling her toward a hatch. Too confused and exhausted to protest, she let him.

Behind them, the deck was utterly silent.

The crew turned stricken faces to a more stricken Gibbs, who managed, "Keep to the Code."

Finally, Ana María, the new captain, barked, "Weigh anchor! Hoist the sails! Make quick, you ninnies!"

The stunned crew slowly obeyed, but Gibbs' eyes looked into the fog toward the Isla de Muerta and his expression could have said many things.

* * *

Barbossa strode down the torchlit corridor his crew made and stopped only halfway down. At the end, Jack rested his hands on his oar and smiled mildly. Barbossa's mind itched; his face was tight. "How th'blazes did you get off that island?"

"When you marooned me on that godforsaken spit of land," Jack said smugly, "you forgot one very important thing, mate."

He paused. Barbossa nodded impatiently.

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Ah. Well I won't be makin' that mistake again." He addressed his crew. "Gents. Y'all remember Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Aye," they growled.

Barbossa paused to savor the words. "Kill him." He retreated as the men happily cocked their pistols and unsheathed their blades.

"The girl's blood didn't work, did it?"

Jack's quiet voice caught Barbossa mid-stride. Curses ran through his mind in a rapid stream. "Hold your fire," he snapped.

His disappointed crew obeyed. He stepped toward Jack, nodded once. "You know whose blood we need."

Jack stared Barbossa in the eye for a long moment, then smiled his maddening smile.

"I know whose blood you need."

* * *

The _Interceptor_ fled the mists of Isla de Muerta, greedily eating all the head start she could get. Her passengers knew that Barbossa would come raging after them, but it was an unspoken hope that they would reach a haven somewhere. It wasn't an option to head for a fort because the British were on the lookout for the _Interceptor_ as well as Elizabeth, but there were many islands in the Caribbean where a hunted ship could lay low for a long time.

It was fortunate that they had no definite destination. Though they could determine their direction with the sun, they had virtually no idea where they were, thanks to Jack and his compass.

"Thank you."

Elizabeth thanked Will for the second time as her rescuer set a roll, a bowl of reasonable stew, and a cup of water on the small table. She was in the midshipman's mess, a tiny, well-lit room with several cramped tables. It was the most cozy, comforting place she'd ever been, but she'd think about that later. She opened her mouth to begin demanding, and he spoke.

"I brought some clean seawater and some rags and a bandage." He set the items on the table. "Your cut will grow infected if it isn't cleaned."

Elizabeth shook her head at him, exasperated by his determination to see to her physical well being and not her questions. "I thought if I sat like you asked me to and accepted your food, you'd tell me how you ended up on a brand new British warship with that filthy, rude Jack Sparrow and a crew scooped out of the gutter! Now are you going to tell me or not?"

The oddest look came onto his face, half-challenge, half nervousness. "If I do not?"

Elizabeth gaped at him. "I'll not touch this stuff, Will Turner! And I won't see to my hand, won't sleep a wink, don't you mistake me!"

He grinned and the little boy she'd cared for peeped out. She had to smile back, losing every semblance of stern defiance.

Then he hesitated where he stood, his smile fading. She held her breath, wondering if he could bear the impropriety of being with her without a chaperone.

In other words, she waited for him to quietly leave.

Then he sat down right across from her with a thump. "I'd really rather hear what sort of creatures drag women into caves and cut them, Miss Swann. Are they some sort of cult?"

Elizabeth shook her head numbly, smelling the sweat and brine on him…and the sea wind. Ironically, she felt excited and daring now, and by the light in his eyes, he did, too.

"Something worse, I think," she managed. "If I explain, bandage my hand, and eat, will you tell me how you got here?"

"Of course, Miss Swann," he exclaimed, looking ashamed…for his boldness, perhaps? A secretly giddy Elizabeth saw no reason for this whatsoever, but she took a bite and started talking.

* * *

Though Barbossa couldn't feel it, seeing Jack Sparrow swagger onto the _Black Pearl_'s main deck had to make his teeth hurt. It certainly made his eye twitch. Taking a quick inventory of the winds, he barked orders to his men and they obeyed with angry alacrity. The _Pearl_ tore away from the Isla de Muerta like the hounds of Hell were at her heels instead of aboard.

Edging to the right of his guards, Jack straddled the _Pearl_'s centerline with his boots and her signature smooth motion washed up him like a balm. His khol-lined eyes shut briefly, but he sensed Barbossa stalking up, and turned to his nemesis in what bizarrely appeared to be the best of moods. "If y'don't mind, that tack line–" he began to point and Barbossa slapped his hand down.

"Get him to my captain's quarters, now," Barbossa ordered Jack's guards. "And be grateful you aren't the ones what have t'suffer his miserable twattle!"

Jack began to wipe Barbossa's spittle off his cheek with exaggerated movement but the guards seized his arms. They dragged Jack off roughly enough to reduce Barbossa's ire a smidgen. He turned to his first mate. "Let the wind guide us. The filth'll be ridin' the strongest gusts with no sense of direction 'cause their psychotic captain's with us."

Then he whistled his monkey over, braced himself, and stomped toward the captain's quarters. He puzzled over the situation with the oars. The maid wasn't strong enough to gather twenty-four oars and then toss them over, while rowing herself. Jack had to have brought someone else significant and Barbossa wanted to know who it was.

He was going to have to bargain with that mincing devil, curse him to the end of the world and back!

Jack was poking at a mass of melted wax on the ledge below the windows. He looked up peevishly when Barbossa blew in. "I may be a pirate but I know a fire waiting t'happen when I see one–"

Barbossa pointed at one of the table chairs.

"Oh, _thank_ you." Jack sat down opposite the chair Barbossa had indicated and folded his hands on the table with a painfully engaging smile that didn't reach his biting, black eyes. Barbossa almost threw his monkey down, but remembered to be careful just in time. Sensing his foul mood, the animal scampered quickly to the safety of its perch.

Barbossa sat across from Jack and the two captains took each other in. Barbossa was determined to keep the upper hand. He knew the snake he was going up against; he'd chafed under Jack Sparrow's command for months before he'd given the arrogant maggot what he deserved.

Jack's dark gaze missed none of Barbossa's preparations. Under his mustache, his smirk grew.

**:)**


	23. Tangles

Many thanks to Starling Rising and Lady Angst for their stupendous reviews!

Jedipati is an awesome beta!

Disclaimer: POTC belogns to Disney

* * *

Elizabeth stared into her bowl. "Barbossa was angry when the curse didn't lift. He hit me, and then you came."

She knew he was considering her. "That gunshot," he finally said, "it hit the short pirate in the chest?"

She nodded. "Straight through the heart."

He grimly processed this. "And they didn't hurt you beyond that cut and Barbossa's blow?"

"No." She met his scrutinizing gaze firmly.

"Gibbs has to know about all this," he said. "I'll ask him, though he'll likely tell the same curse story that you did."

Elizabeth dipped her roll in the last of her stew, then quickly withdrew it and tapped it on the table.

"It's clean, Miss Swann; I checked for weevils before I brought it."

His eyes were crinkling at the corners. "Oh." Self-conscious, she dipped it back into her bowl. "Thank you."

She took a quick bite, and a fleeting glance upward showed he was watching her intensely. _Oh_. "Isn't Norrington looking for me?" she asked quickly. "How did you get here first?"

Will looked at her with a mixture of guilt, frustration, and dread. "The Commodore is out looking for you. So is your father. As for your second question…I hardly know."

In a quiet, halting voice, he told a story that made Elizabeth completely forget her stew. By the time he closed his tale, she was gripping her spoon in an effort to restrain herself because she wanted to hug him and she knew doing so would traumatize him. Oppositely, she was having a hard time not just staring into his sheepish eyes and letting her mind go blank to everything but their color…but this was highly improper, and his eyes were flicking everywhere except hers, so she stared at her poor spoon instead.

The medallion was heavy around her neck and getting heavier as guilt added its weight.

She hardly knew what to do.

"I made my way though the caves and arrived at the shore just when he knocked you down, and then, well, you know the rest." Will massaged his temple, and Elizabeth watched his fingers rub his skin. Her own fingertips tingled. Had he heard Barbossa demand the location of William Turner's son? He _had_ to have…why didn't he say so? Elizabeth realized she didn't want him to and she couldn't make herself ask. So she made herself smile; it was easier. "Well," she cleared her throat; "I suppose we're even then, aren't we?"

"You saved me, I saved you," Will confirmed with his usual forthrightness.

It almost brought her to tears. She shook her head at him, and said, as earnestly as she could, "_Thank_ you."

"Y-you're welcome." His tan and the dim light didn't quite hide his blush. He picked at the table. "And like I said, Norrington is doing everything he can, and I'm sure it's all legal. He was very worried." He tensed as if to stand.

"But Will," she said urgently, "it wasn't he who rescued me, was it? Can you imagine the way he'd do it, with troops storming the caves and getting lost and slaughtered by those monsters? In a way, you've saved Norrington's life; he never survive such a situation." He was giving her a disbelieving half-smile. She fidgeted with agitation. "And what you did, all those illegal things…you did to save my life! Legal or not, my father won't care. In fact, he'll be thanking you."

He absently ground his teeth. "It's not him I'm worried about."

"Norrington." A flick of his dark eyes and she knew she was right. She pursed her lips, acknowledging the merit for anxiety. She pulled the cup of water over and dipped the rag in. "I'll talk to him." She squeezed excess water from the rag and, braced herself, glanced up.

He was smiling mirthlessly at her determination. "He's not going to forget how we made him sail straight over his own lifeboat. I saw him glaring, Miss Swann."

_I wish I had_. Elizabeth banished the shameful thought by pressing the cloth to her hand. She kept her head down, holding her breath as agony lanced through her hand.

Will leaned forward as pain drained her face, then sat stiffly back and crossed his arms.

"He prizes his reputation, it's true. But if he doesn't recognize the bravery of what you did, he's a fool," Elizabeth said through gritted teeth. "Besides, he's probably going to be more angry with Jack, who's the more experienced and famous of the two of you."

"He will be angry with Jack," Will agreed flatly.

_As he should be_, Elizabeth thought. _The cretin was going to trade Will for the _Black Pearl.

She tossed the stained rag aside and breathed deeply. She kept her head down, and through the haze of pain she saw Will's foot an extremely safe distance from hers. His shoe was scuffed; one side had a jagged rip, and the buckle was nowhere to be seen.

Elizabeth tried to fathom what the lowly apprentice had given up for her and how it made her feel, all in two seconds. It only left her breathless and dismayed at the inconvenience her feelings were sure to cause in the future. But these weren't new feelings, she realized, they were just a stronger continuation of what she'd felt when he'd first opened his eyes on the _Dauntless_ so many years ago…_heaven help me, it's true._

She saw again that little smile he'd given her in the cave, and blushed. She cursed herself, not wanting to lift a beet-red face for Will to look at. Her thoughts then turned to Jack Sparrow and she cooled right down to a frigid anger. She lifted her head, saw Will look away, and grabbed the bandaging. It looked like it had been ripped off a shirt. _I wonder…_

She refused to let herself inspect his shirt for tears and started to wrap the strip around her hand. She glanced up. He was staring at his hands. She almost paused at the sight of him, but caught herself sternly and continued to wrap. Seconds later, she peeked again. He was still inspecting his hands, his eyelashes dark crescents over tan skin.

_Think about Jack and all he did to Will!_

"What sort of a man trades a man's life for a ship?" she demanded.

"Pirate," was his soft reply.

Her eyes sparked but she said nothing, resorting to angrily tending to her hand.

"Here." Hands–_his hands_, captured hers. "Let me."

_Oh_. He had to have a dozen calluses; they rasped on her skin, jolting every inch of her awake. She felt acutely dismayed as heat like she'd never felt before rushed to her face. "Thank you."

Her hands were so smooth. They went limp in his, just like Abbey's fluffy chicks did. He gently began to wrap the linen around, around, as carefully as if he were holding one of those innocently yellow baby birds. He looked at her; she was blushing fiercely. Pleased and needing to save her pride at the same time, he asked the question that had been burning holes in his mind. "You said you gave Barbossa my name as yours."

Her eyes came up, startled. He looked into them, singed by their perfection yet needing to understand what she hid inside them. "Why?"

She looked down. "I don't know," she mumbled. His stomach churned. She wasn't telling the truth. She didn't want to tell him something...

He carefully began to make a knot, frustrated. Now he wanted to know what she was hiding more than anything else. How could he pry the truth from her without being rude or hurting her feeling–

She gasped, yanking her hand back. His own breath caught; he'd tightened the knot too tightly. And hurt her. "Blacksmith's hands," he said to his lap. "I know they're rough."

Through the clamor of berating voices in his head he heard her murmur, "No. I mean yes, they are, but…"

Her hand relaxed, slender fingers resting in his palm; he could feel the warmth from her palm radiating against his own fingers. The floor seemed to drop out from under him. Elizabeth Swann, toast of Port Royal, daughter of the governor was, despite his blunder, letting him hold her _bare_ hand, perfectly complacent…trusting. He stopped breathing altogether when he felt his spirit rise terrifically into the rays of her trust, transforming him into a new being…

A man?

He felt every juvenile binding give way to the power of this new creature in his chest, the person he longed to be, and he wanted to build himself as a castle around her, so she would never have to be afraid again. Instead, he reverently enclosed her precious hand in the safe shelter of his own. He brushed the back of her hand with his fingers as softly as he would the feathers of Abbey's little ones.

She didn't pull away; instead she whispered, "...But don't stop."

That brought his head up. She was looking at him with a mixture of gratitude and happiness that made her look both luminescent and ready to cry, and when he realized with a shock that her face was getting bigger, closer, he felt her name swell again on his tongue, sweeter than before, overwhelming. He slid his hand along her cheek, palm flaring briefly at the incredible softness of it, and, putting away the youth who never stepped outside the lines, he spoke her name to her, unable to keep it inside his lips as he leaned forward to meet her–

"_Elizabeth._"

She recoiled with a gasp. He tore his eyes from her lips, crushing the expectancy he'd felt. He glanced into her eyes–_we can't, _they said, echoing his own thoughts. He was a blacksmith. A hunted blacksmith. The knowledge smothered everything and he began to sit back without another thought, marveling at the devastation ripping his insides.

Her fingers went around his wrist, catching it as it retreated. She pulled it down to the chain that disappeared beneath her gown, where she let him go and pulled free something so familiar he forgot where he was.

The medallion's grin. He'd looked at it so many times, felt it against his skinny boy's chest, reassured by its presence. He'd actually been proud of it. He cupped it in his hand and its touch brought back a hundred feelings, smells, subconscious impressions.

"It's yours," she said sadly, and yanked the chain loose.

He withdrew, eyes fixed on the medallion in his palm. "I thought I'd lost it on the day they rescued me. It was a gift from my father; he sent it to me." He looked up. The guilt on her face was like a slap. "Why did you take it?"

"Because I was afraid that you were a pirate." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. "That would've been awful."

Will had been punched in the stomach once, by a bully called Charles Thatcher. He was feeling the blow all over again, the world slamming backwards, as his mind raced to put everything together.

"It wasn't your blood they needed." He stared at the medallion. "It was my father's blood…my blood."

She didn't even look surprised. That hurt, but it couldn't compare to the pain of the next words that fell like stones from his mouth. "The blood of a pirate." He squeezed the medallion in his fist as if he could kill it.

"Will, I'm so sorry," Elizabeth cried softly. "Please forgive me."

_A pirate_. All the laws he'd broken and the personal standards he'd shattered had bothered him because he'd been proving Jack right. He had been 'well on his way' to being a pirate, and he'd hated it.

Hop, skip, surprise around the corner–he'd had the despised blood he running through his veins even as he hated everything it stood for.

He slammed the cursed gold to the table, unable to speak. He heard Elizabeth's gasping, and then the rustle of that awful-wonderful red dress as she fled. His eyes followed her out of sight and then he was alone with the medallion and his crushing thoughts.

* * *

"So. You expect to leave me standin' on some beach with nothin' but a name and your word it's the one I need, and watch you sail away in my ship?" Barbossa chortled, rugged face lit bleakly. The light wasn't the only bleak aspect of the situation; Jack Sparrow had given no quarter in this verbal battle of wit and thanks to him, Barbossa had manipulated himself more than once while under the impression he was manipulating Jack instead.

"No!" Jack exclaimed, seemingly surprised. "I expect to leave you standing on some beach with absolutely no name at all, watching me sail away on _my_ ship." He stood. "And then I'll _shout_ the name back to you." He leaned forward, supported by rigid arms. "Savvy?"

"That still leaves us with the problem of me standin' on some beach with naught but a name and your word it's the one I need," Barbossa said thoughtfully.

Jack considered the bowl of apples in the center of the table. "Of the two of us, I am the only one who hasn't committed mutiny," he plucked up three bright green apples, "therefore my word is the one we'll be trusting."

Barbossa had no response.

Jack two of the apples and sat back down. "Although, I suppose I should be thanking you because, in fact–" he heaved his booted feet onto the table "–if you hadn't betrayed me and left me to die, I would have an equal share in that curse, same as you." Jolly, he bit into his apple and grinned at Barbossa, eyes glinting. "Funny old world, isn't it?"

That was below the belt. All Barbossa could do was mentally call Jack offensive names and watch in agony as the pirate chewed. Jack noticed this. Eyebrows up, he innocently held the apple out.

The doors at Jack's back opened to admit the bosun. "Captain. We're coming up on the _Interceptor_."

Barbossa could not have asked for a better reprieve. The monkey was already leaping across the table, causing Jack to flinch back with a grimace of disappointment. The monkey led the way up to the quarterdeck; Barbossa followed. Jack leaned unsteadily over the railing and looked ahead.

There was the _Interceptor_, a smudge of white. In the seconds Jack gazed at it, he could see it grew significantly larger. Part of him swelled with pride. _That's the _Pearl_ for you._ The _Interceptor_ was a falcon, but his _Pearl_ was a golden eagle, highly extensive wingspan, arrow-straight direction, and heartless talons included.

Barbossa snapped his grimy spyglass open and directed it ahead, filling his gaze with the _Interceptor_. She wasn't flying full canvas; her passengers hadn't noticed the _Pearl_, though it was only a matter of seconds till they did, but it would make no difference. It wouldn't have made a difference if they'd noticed earlier, either. Cold satisfaction cleared a space in his chest that slowly welled with delicious bloodlust. The filth would pay a price even they could not comprehend. Yet.

Jack's blurry mouth and nose filled the magnified circle. "I'm having a thought here, Barbossa."

Barbossa lowered his spyglass and glared.

"What say you we run up a flag of truce," Jack gestured, "I scurry over to the _Interceptor_, and I negotiate the return of your medallion. What d'you say to that?"

He could not _stand_ the way the man flapped his hands about; it was practically obscene. "Now, y'see, Jack," he said, "that's exactly the attitude that lost you th'_Pearl_. People are easy t'search when they're dead." He snapped his spyglass together and spoke one of the most satisfying phrases in the world: "Lock him in the brig."

The huge bosun grabbed Jack's shoulder with a vengeance. Barbossa snatched Jack's apple as he was pulled away.

Barbossa's eyes burned at the white flesh of the bite mark; saw juice running down it, and he hurled it through a tattered sail and into the sea.

**Thank you for reading!**


	24. The Falcon and the Eagle

**A/N:** Thank you so much to meowbooks, lady angst, Starling Rising, and Manwathiel for your reviews. (Manwathiel- you're really sweet!!)

Thank you to jedipati, my wonderful, faithful beta!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

A miserable Elizabeth was trudging past the steps to the main deck when the world suddenly bucked forward beneath her. Gasping in surprise, she grabbed the third step to keep from falling. Lips parted, she huddled there for a moment, wide eyes darting around. The _Interceptor_ began to speak in a voice she'd never heard before, popping, creaking, above, below, on all sides.

Elizabeth nails dug into the gray wood as an overpowering sensation of _tightening_ washed over her. Something was happening. For a moment she was frozen. And then she rushed up the steps, pushing her shoulder against the grated trapdoor.

Above it, people were shouting.

The trapdoor lifted. Sunlight poured down and she pulled herself into it, buffeted by wind. Gibbs was almost standing on top of her and completely unaware of it. His grayed hair blew across a grim expression, and her heart sank.

"Hands aloft to loose t'gallants!" he shouted. "With this wind dead astern, she'll carry every sail we've got!"

Feet thudded and sailors sprang monkey-like onto the ratlines. Elizabeth clambered out of the hold, leaving the grate open behind her. "What's happening?"

"The _Black Pearl_!" Ana María shouted from the helm. She clutched the knobs in white-knuckled hands, eyes wide. "She's gaining on us!"

_No, no, no, no, no…_Elizabeth rushed to the rail and leaned out.

Trailing mist, the _Pearl_ hovered closer than the horizon like a great gray bird of prey. It was so near that she could see the tears in the sails, the keel slicing the waves like butter. And it was growing larger with every passing second.

Now she was going to die. And not only she, but also innocent–relatively speaking–pirates…and Will, too. She felt sick. The nightmare was back, the warmth of the midshipmen's mess a fluffy hallucination. Gathering up her skirts, she sprinted to the quarterdeck and joined Gibbs and Ana María. "This is the fastest ship in the Caribbean!"

"You can tell 'em that after they've caught us," Ana María snapped.

Elizabeth glanced about, mind racing back to the stories she'd read in her childhood. Inspiration struck. "We're shallower on the draft, right?"

"Aye." Ana María looked hopefully inquisitive.

"Well, then can't we lose them among those shoals?"

Gibbs and Ana María followed Elizabeth's pointing finger to a line of aqua-green water surrounding a tiny island.

"We don't have to outrun 'em for long," Gibbs exclaimed, "just long enough!"

"Lighten the ship," Ana María yelled, hauling on the helm, "stem to stern!"

Gibbs rushed to the rail above the lower deck and faced the crew. "Anything we can afford to loose, see that it's lost!"

The falcon that was the _Interceptor-_falcon wheeled starboard, making a desperate lunge for a haven out of the _Pearl-_eagle's reach.

* * *

The _Pearl_'s brig was very dim and stuffy. It reeked worse than a London street. If Jack were running the ship, he'd have the decency to at least make someone swab it with something other than bilge water–

Oh.

Was that…_sloshing_?

It was. At least two inches of water rippled across the floor with the _Pearl_'s motion. Inside, Jack's resentment soared beyond what he'd thought possible. Inside, he thought, _Oh, Blackie, you've got water running through yer insides like a corpse lyin' in a stream._

Outside, he said dully, "Apparently there's a leak."

He got no response. The bosun shoved him into the cage-cell, locked door, and climbed back toward the sun. Jack crossed his cell and peered out a fist-sized hole. What a first-rate view he had of the shimmering water and clear sky. How capitol.

A barrel, then a crate, bobbed past.

_Ah, mates, y'could hack the planking off the decks __an'__you'd__ still be done for. _

* * *

The _Pearl_ devoured the _Interceptor_'s cargo, savagely crushing the items under her bow. Each impact set a slight jolt through her heaving frame and Barbossa savored every one. There was nothing in the world like the _Black Pearl_ on a hunt. She stalked the _Interceptor_ with the same relish that pounded through her captain's veins.

"Haul on the main brace!" he ordered. "Make ready the guns!" He smiled, tilted his head toward his ever-ready bosun. "And run out the sweeps."

The bosun grinned, exposing his full mouth of jostling teeth before fluidly lunging off.

The Jolly Roger rippled up the mainmast.

* * *

Will could not ignore the men who clattered past the midshipmen's mess with full arms. Something was incredibly wrong. He ran to the ladder and climbed onto the deck.

It was crawling with seamen tossing cannonballs, crates, and barrels over the rail. His hair blew in his face as he glanced at the rigging–every sail the _Interceptor_ had was bloated with wind. He knew why, but fear would not let him believe until he saw. He grabbed a ratline, leaped onto the humming rail, and leaned out.

The _Black Pearl_ was so close he could count the long sweeps extending like spider legs from her sides. For a moment he could only feel his heart rate escalate to a full-out sprint. Then the rail beneath his firmly planted feet thumped and he looked down to see a cannon about to be rolled off by a Marty's childish shape.

Will's foot landed on the barrel. Marty froze and stared up at him angrily. Will didn't care. "We're gonna need that."

Elizabeth tightened her lips against tears as she stared at their hunter. The shoals were still far off. The _Pearl_ had already diminished the distance between them by half. She had to face it: they would never make it.

Despair never hurt as much as it did when it carried a sword called hope.

Ana María's dark glance took in the _Pearl_. "It was a good plan," she said quietly. "Up till now."

"Gibbs!" Will exploded onto the quarterdeck. "We have to make a stand! We must fight! Load the guns!"

"With what?" Ana María's beautiful face was as hard as her snapped words.

"Anything. Everything! Anything we have left."

For an impossible moment, they all gazed helplessly at one another, and then Gibbs staggered toward the main deck. "Load the guns! Case shot and langrage!" He hurried down through the shocked crew urging, "Nails and crushed glass! With a will!"

Despite the situation, Elizabeth looked at Will, wishing he'd acknowledge her, even for an instant.

He did. Their eyes met. And then he was lunging down onto the main deck. In his gaze she'd seen his fear, his anger, and sense of betrayal, and they sank her more deeply into her own misery. She followed him, words pushing against her lips, but two steps down she could only halt and watch his retreating back.

She saw the _Pearl_ looming in the corner of her eye, and felt foolish. She turned and marched back onto the quarterdeck, forcing herself to focus on her doom.

That was when she remembered the adventures of _Captain Dreadful and His Ravening Crew, the Wildest Buccaneers to Sail the Seven Seas_ and a certain maneuver Dreadful had been particularly fond of.

* * *

An air of insane despair hung over the gun deck of the _Interceptor_. White-faced seamen shoved handfuls of tableware and cookware down the gullets of the cannons, avoiding eyes, saying nothing.

When Mr. Gibbs leaned on Marty's cannon and produced his little canteen, Marty snatched the canteen and stuffed it in with the rest. Gibb's grim face grew grimmer and he scrambled away, up to the main deck. He joined Will at the rail. A cold, wet wind rippled past. His eyes widened with alarm: the _Pearl_'s sweeps were tilting down into the water.

"The _Pearl_'s gonna luff up on our port quarter!" He scrambled onto the quarterdeck. Will followed. "She'll rake us without even presenting a target!"

Ana María flashed him a helpless look. They could cause the _Pearl_ no damage without a full broadside, and slowing to come about would be the death of them.

Elizabeth turned with a strange expression on her face. "Lower the anchor on the right side."

They stared at her.

"On the starboard side!" she insisted.

"Certainly has the element of surprise," Will said.

"You're daft, lady," Ana María yapped, dark hair blowing across her neck. "You both are!"

Gibb's face lit up. "Daft like Jack!" He lunged to the rail and shouted to the main deck, "Lower the starboard anchor!"

Below, the seamen gaped at him.

"Do it, you dogs," he bellowed, "or it's you we'll load into the cannons!"

In seconds, the _Interceptor_'s starboard anchor plunged beneath the waves. Its line shot like lighting through the chock and everyone aboard nervously braced him or her self as the _Interceptor_'s bowsprit began to angle around.

* * *

Barbossa felt the sweeps dig deeply into the water, dragging back to the sound of men's groans. The _Pearl_ leaped forward so fast it seemed she'd been crawling before. The eagle was going into a dive.

Stroking his monkey, he saw a flicker on his prey's starboard side, but he didn't believe what he thought it _could_ be until the _Interceptor_ began to buck forward, her rudder lifting from the water. Across the distance he could hear the chock exploding under the strain, but the _Interceptor_'s great cry of protest quickly drowned the snapping. Groaning, she began to turn as if balanced on the for'ard section of her keel, masts swaying, lines buckling. He dropped his monkey as she came about with ferocious speed.

"They're clubhaulin'!" He turned to the helmsman. "Hard to port! Rack the starboard oars!"

The _Black Pearl_ veered aside, folding half her spider's legs to her body as the _Interceptor_ settled roughly into the water, one flank bared and dotted with cannon muzzles. In seconds the two vessels were sliding alongside each other.

* * *

"Keep us steady, man," Will told Gibbs. Armed now, enemies were beginning to catch glimpses of one another through cannon ports and over railings. Yells, curses, and insults rose. The air was clammy and hazy, tinged with danger, and yet the sun glared. The spars of the two ships reached toward one another, and the tension grew to snapping.

Barbossa unsheathed his sword.

"Now!" Will cried, his voice mingling with Elizabeth's and Mr. Gibbs'.

"Fire!" Barbossa yelled. The cannons were already spewing fire and shock waves. Both ships rocked, splinters blossoming from multiple impacts.

* * *

When their cannon port was hit Pintel and Ragetti ducked to avoid a cannonball that never came. The impact was deafening, yes, but it clinked and rang metallically.

Cautiously, Pintel looked at the beam beside him.

A silver spoon jutted as if it were about to scoop out a bite of wood like cream. Knifes, forks, and a spatula flashed nearby. Incredulous, Pintel turned to Ragetti and gaped.

A fork had skewered Ragetti's crude wood eye. He squeaked it around, and Pintel, unable to bear it another minute, grasped the fork and pulled. The entire eye popped free with a sucking noise.

They turned baleful gazes toward the _Interceptor_, glaring through a cannon port glittering with general-issue navy utensils.

* * *

Jack, eye to hole, was faced with a familiar sight.

Feeling rather tired of it all, he threw himself away from the wall just in time to avoid being beheaded by a cannonball. Ears ringing, he rolled over and sat up in the ankle-deep water, fists clenched, eyes wild. "Stop blowin' 'oles in my ship!"

Nobody was listening. The _Interceptor_ howled and let lose another broadside into the _Pearl_'s ribs; the _Pearl_ retaliated.

Hopeless, he slouched in the rising water, breathed the smoky air that wafted through his enlarged window, and pondered the immense problems humans presented to him, never mind that he was human, too. It was during this time of unreasonable fuming that he realized how large a grudge he held against the world.

He crossed his arms. He could not help it that the world was determined to trip him up every other day; any grudge it got, it deserved.

Then he spotted something of interest. A small canteen, quite familiar, floated on the scummy water across the cell. _Rum!_ Jack snatched it up, pulled off the lid, and tilted it back over his mouth.

And got only saltwater.

Somebody up among the deities truly hated his weasly black guts and it wasn't fair–he glared past the useless canteen and changed his mind for, smoke was rising in a silk wisp from the lock of his cell door, which was strangely absent.

He stood. He went to the door. He carefully pushed on it.

With a profound creak he would never forget, it swung wide.

* * *

The combat was growing more and more intimate as the pirates, mortal and immortal, began to wield pistols and other small firearms, hoping to further their chances of victory.

For those on the _Interceptor_, intimate combat was almost all they had. The cannon crews had done their best and were decimated and the _Interceptor_ was listing unsteadily, crippled, moaning intermittently.

Gibbs, Will, Elizabeth, and Ana María huddled behind the rail. Will and Gibbs took potshots, Elizabeth cleaned and loaded, and Ana María did both. It was a good system, very efficient. They had reason to be proud. The only problem was they were shooting creatures that couldn't die. Which meant they would loose in the end, no matter how many bullets they sent across.

"We could use a few more ideas, lass," Gibbs called Elizabeth.

"It's your turn!"

"We need us a devil's dowry," he announced hoarsely.

Ana María grabbed Elizabeth and pointed a pistol at her head. "We'll give 'em her!"

"She's not what they're after," Will said firmly. Ana María drew back and Elizabeth looked down. She clutched at the empty space above her dress. "The medallion!"

She got a glimpse of Will's huge eyes before he threw down his musket and scrambled away, bent in half. Oblivious to everything and oblivious to the fact that she was oblivious, Elizabeth held her breath and prayed until he reached a hatch, lifted it, and quickly dropped out of view. She grabbed his musket and reloaded it to keep from running after him.

Then she heard Barbossa's roar: "Strike your colors, you bloomin' cockroaches!" and forgot Will altogether.

* * *

Pintel drew back, covering his ears, and with a ghoul's grin, Ragetti lit the cannon.

It yelled and recoiled, wrenching at the chains restraining it. From its mouth hurled chain shot, two heavy balls tethered together by a chain. Like a ballerina it twirled, twirled, twirled, straight into the _Interceptor_'s mainmast.

A terrific crack rang out, and fountain of wood soared high. The _Interceptor_ staggered and her crew with her. All fighting stilled and everyone looked up as the few pirates perched on spars jumped off, shouting.

Then the proud _Interceptor_'s crown began to topple, her deck buckling. Furled sails rippling, rigging snapping, the mainmast collapsed starboard, a tree falling toward the lumberjacks responsible for its death. The _Pearl_'s crew scrambled away, all except for Barbossa, who strode forward to meet the descending monolith, monkey perched on his shoulder.

The _Pearl_'s railing bowed under the mournful impact of the huge trunk; both ships lurched, slid, and tattered sails smothered the _Pearl_'s deck. Barbossa, having avoided being squashed with a calm step to the left, breathed in the silence...and the victory that permeated it.

He took a deep breath. "Blast all to carcasses, men! Forward, clear to the powder magazine, and the rest of you, bring me that medallion!"

Yowling, the pirates threw grapnels to humiliated _Interceptor_, pulling their royal victim close before leaping in for the kill. The mortal pirates barely had time to ready themselves for a final defense before the _Pearl_ monsters landed on their deck.

Elizabeth, now alone, pressed herself against the rail and with nothing else to do, lifted her musket and shot at the immortals, who scattered over the deck like ants; killing, disappearing into the hatches.

* * *

Captain Sparrow arrived on the _Black Pearl_'s deck and surveyed the confusion with approval. Confusion was perfect if you had a secret agenda, and by the Palm Tree's Beard, did Jack have a secret agenda...

**Thanks for reading!**


	25. Negotiate

Thank you to lady angst, meowbooks, Starling Rising, and Manwathiel for your incredibly encouraging reviews! And thank you to my beta, jedipati, for all her work!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Unnoticed, Jack climbed onto the _Pearl_'s rail and perched there, wondering. The space between himself and the _Interceptor_ was not to be taken lightly, as it was wide and streaked with bullets, cannonballs, and other questionable projectiles.

Secret agendas required bravery, of course. No, not bravery. Stupidity. Jack smiled to himself. He could reasonably manage that.

At that moment, a pirate from the _Black Pearl_–who definitely had less luck than Jack did– attempted to swing to the _Interceptor_.

His aim was bad, Jack noted immediately. He watched the hapless idiot bounce off a ratline and careen back, twisting and yelling. As the immortal came over the _Pearl_'s rail, Jack reached out and took the rope, leaving him to slam to the deck. "Thanks very much," Jack said politely, then pushed off.

Over the water he swung, over the _Interceptor_'s rail, and over a pirate who was fighting–and winning, it seemed–against his good friend Mr. Gibbs.

Then, with a sickened slowing, Jack's momentum ran out, just when he had no good place to land, if he wanted to live. It was most inconvenient, but yes, he did want to live, so, with no other choice, he clutched his rope and careened backward. His rear connected rather painfully with somebody's back and then he was flying out over the water again, toward the _Pearl_.

He shouted wordlessly and clung tighter to his rope, letting it again reverse direction for the _Interceptor_. Instead of enjoying the view this time, he landed straightaway and did not fall on his rump. _More savvy-points for me_.

"Jack!" An overjoyed and alive Gibbs peeled himself gingerly off the rail.

Jack shoved the canteen into his hands, "Bloody empty."

* * *

Elizabeth was out of ammunition. As an immortal came at leering at her she surged to her feet, wielding her musket like a club. He apparently hadn't heard that she had stabbed his captain without thought, because when she hit him, he looked surprised and plopped right to the deck. Someone grabbed her by the arm and wrenched her around. Another immortal, dripping sweat and blood. She drew back to hit him, too, but he hefted a sword and she froze, bracing herself for the blow.

A lean, tan hand caught the pirate's wrist, staying the sword. Both the immortal and Elizabeth turned to see a face that was far too familiar to them both.

"That's not very nice," Jack Sparrow told the immortal.

Elizabeth pulled free and hit the immortal hard enough to dent his skull. Jack lunged over his senseless form and pulled her with him into the relative shelter of the rail. "Where's the medallion?"

"Wretch!" Furious, she hit at him with her bound hand; he deftly caught her wrist and looked at the bandaging.

"Ah." His eyes lifted to her face. "And where is dear William?"

_Will!_ Elizabeth almost choked. She tore herself away from Jack and rushed to the hatch Will had opened. It was now pinned under part of the mainmast. She could see fingers curled around the grating and she threw herself on it, peering down. "Will!"

"Elizabeth!" She caught a glimpse of his panicked eyes.

How long had he been stuck down there? She could see massive, displaced beams crisscrossing all around his pale face, trapping him. Worst of all, she could hear the gurgle of rising water. She yanked wildly at the hatch, breaking her fingernails on the wood. It didn't budge. "I can't move it!" Suddenly, cruel hands seized her arms. She screamed as two immortal pirates yanked her away.

"Elizabeth!" Will yelled, peering up. He shoved violently again at the beams, but they refused to budge. And still the water rose.

* * *

Jack was still waiting patiently, but then his eyes widened. "Monkey!" _Oh no you don't you flea-infested rat! _He leaped up and ran to the collapsed mainmast. Barbossa's monkey was using it as a bridge to reach the _Black __Pearl_, carrying the medallion in one paw. Jack lunged onto the mainmast and scurried across it, looking for the entire world like a huge monkey. He was gaining...he caught up just in time to freeze with an outstretched hand.

Captain Barbossa stood two feet away, smiling as he took the medallion from his pet. "Why, thank you, Jack."

"You're welcome." Jack returned Barbossa's smile.

"Not you. We named the monkey 'Jack'." On Barbossa's shoulder, the monkey grinned. Barbossa held up the medallion. "Gents! Our hope is restored!"

* * *

In the dimness of the _Interceptor_'s powder magazine, Twigg and Khoeler admired their handiwork. A path of loose planks made its way to a mountain of explosives, carrying a thick trail of gunpowder. The rising water was inches from washing the powder away.

The emaciated Twigg lit the gunpowder and a hot burst of flame snapped up. He and Khoeler fled as the flame devoured the gunpowder, spitting and snapping, careening down the planks toward utter devastation.

* * *

His heart thumped the seconds of his life's last minutes as he tilted his head back and water lapped icily into his ears. There was no time to panic, much less weigh the scanty options.

Will gulped a great lungful of air then shoved off, down into the dread murkiness.

Will futilely pushed at one submerged beam and then another, each attempt weaker than the previous. Bubbles seeped from his numb lips, his eyes screamed whenever he opened them, and his chest was ready to explode.

Slowly, he pushed himself downwards, toward the incoming rush of water he could feel on his legs.

He wasn't sure if he was blacking out or if he was simply leaving the sunlight behind, but everything dimmed.

And dimmed.

And dimmed.

And…

* * *

"Any a' you so much as thinks the word 'parlay', I'll have your guts for garters!"

Pintel stalked like a lion–a bald lion–about his prisoners. Well, his and Barbossa's. Well, his and Barbossa's and Ragetti's. Well, aye, everyone else's. Backs against the mainmast, rope snug at their waists, the pirates of the _Interceptor_ squinted miserably at him and thanks to the pistol he brandished, issued not one peep. Not even his poppet uttered a word. Power was indeed delicious.

As Pintel moved his terrible glare onto a tall pirate with a parrot he saw a blur in the corner of his eye. He whirled. He cursed. It was his poppet, leaping at his captain's unguarded back like a lioness and she was already halfway there and his mates were too shocked to stop her and he was too far away–

An explosion rent the air and in the distance, the _Interceptor_ erupted. The fountain of water went fifty feet into the air and shards of wood were all that remained.

Somewhere behind Pintel, Jacoby gave a happy little squeak. AnaMaría moaned. Elizabeth stood stunned mere feet behind Barbossa. "Will!" she gasped.

The leap she took at Barbossa put her earlier lunge to shame. He didn't know what hit him. "You've got to stop!" she shrilled, kicking and scratching him in a frenzy of grief. "Stop it!"

It was all very dramatic and the _Interceptor_'s crew brightened to see Barbossa getting a taste of his own medicine, but the pirate captain was larger than his fiery attacker. He captured her clawing hands in an instant. "Welcome back, miss," he sneered as she struggled. "You took advantage of our hospitality last time; it holds fair you return the favor!" He chortled in her face and shoved her across the deck and his crew surged to meet her, arms outstretched. Their eager hands enveloped her, too many for her to repulse though she shrieked and fought with everything she had.

The very decent Mr. Gibbs turned away, as did the other prisoners, even a regretful Jack. Barbossa smugly did not, and that was why he didn't see a drenched Will Turner climb onto the _Black Pearl_'s rail and stand there holding a ratline, eyes burning the instant they landed on the besieged Elizabeth.

"Barbossa!" he bellowed over her cries. The captain turned. His crew stilled, though they refused to relinquish their prize.

"Will!" She stared, face aglow.

He glanced at her, but his gaze was darkly flat. He leaped down onto the deck and grabbed a forgotten pistol from a cannon. Dripping, he pointed it at Barbossa. "She goes free."

Barbossa advanced. "What's in your head, boy?"

Will repeated, "She goes free."

Though Elizabeth inhaled sharply as the pirates tightened their hold, Will's eyes never shifted from Barbossa's. The pirate captain halted when his nose was inches from the youth's weapon. He glanced at it. "You've got only one shot, and we can't die."

"Don't do anything stupid." Jack had his hands together, prayerful.

Will shot Jack a black look then clambered back up onto the rail, hoping no one saw how his legs shook. "You can't." He pointed at Barbossa with the gun. Then he put the muzzle to his own jaw. "I can."

_No!_ Elizabeth renewed her struggles and the pirates again restrained her. Jack's hands were over his mouth. "Like that," he murmured.

Barbossa was taken aback. "Who _are_ you?"

Jack ducked free of the rope. "No one!" He placed himself in front of Barbossa. "He's no one. Distant– cousin of my aunt's nephew, twice removed. Lovely singing voice though." Conspiratorially he squinted and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Eunuch."

"My name is Will Turner," Will rasped. "My father was Bootstrap Bill Turner, his blood runs in my veins."

"He's the spittin' image a' old Bootstrap Bill," Ragetti cried, "come back t'haunt us!"

_And there he be, our little oar-stealer, ain't he, Jack?_ Barbossa shot a grin at his nemesis, who slumped mournfully and retreated.

"On my word, do as I say," Will snapped, "or I'll pull this trigger and be lost to Davy Jones' locker!"

That firm voice, the reckless courage. These were Turner trademarks that erased every doubt in Barbossa's mind, for he'd known Bootstrap the same as Jack. "Name your terms, Mr. Turner."

"Elizabeth goes free!"

"Yes, we know that one." Barbossa smiled obligingly. "Anythin' else?"

Will did not see Jack motioning to himself. "And the crew." He gestured briefly with the pistol. "The crew are not to be harmed."

Barbossa stepped forward, disturbing teeth revealed in a crooked grin.

"Agreed."

* * *

The silence after Barbossa's assent was incredibly awkward. Fortunately, it lasted only two seconds. Barbossa nodded to his men and Elizabeth was suddenly released. Her captors dispersed, some into the rigging, others across the deck. She shakily straightened her clothing and looked to Will with tears in her eyes.

He dropped the pistol. The instant his feet touched the deck he was nearly tackled and would've gone down if the rail hadn't been at his back. But they pushed him down anyway, flat to the deck. The vulnerable sound of the air being knocked from his lungs twisted Elizabeth's middle and she started forward, but Barbossa was suddenly blocking her way. She stopped in her tracks and retreated, hands clenched. He gave her a goading smile and moved off.

"Make for those shoals!" he yelled. An instant after the _Pearl_ turned her back on the remains of the _Interceptor_. It would be mere minutes until she reached her destination.

Pintel and Ragetti tightened the ropes about the remaining prisoners. Standing alone, Jack tried to be inconspicuous, but very quickly had Khoeler and Twigg keeping him company.

Barbossa approached Elizabeth. She shrank for a moment, then lifted her chin and glared at him.

"You're apparently worth quite a bit, Miss…" He halted two feet away. "What's yer name, actually?"

She could hear Will struggling to breathe. Beyond Barbossa's left arm, they were binding his hands behind his back. A spear of rage pierced the lump of tears in her throat, drying her mouth completely. "I don't need to tell you anything," she grated.

Barbossa's crusty beard blew in the wind. "If that be the way y'want it." He grinned as the order to weigh anchor was given. "I'm a man a' my word. You're t'be set free right quick…an' you'll be wantin' to take a good look at that." He nodded over her shoulder.

She twisted around. Some ways off rested the island, a completely deserted patch of white sand with a heavy head of palm trees. Filled with dread, she whirled back around, but Barbossa was already across the deck. "Men! Bring out the plank!"

A roar of approval went up. By the time the plank had been pushed out and secured Elizabeth had been dragged to its base. She had no time to express her outrage, to even struggle, before she was pushed beyond the rail. "Go on, poppet, go!" Pintel jabbed at her with his sword. "Walk the plank!"

Others gleefully followed suit, and soon the space in the rail bristled. Swallowing, Elizabeth deliberately lifted her skirt and turned her back on them. It was not supposed to happen this way. She wanted to kill that smirking old man like nothing else.

The island was too far off. The sky was too blue and too huge, curving all the way down to her elbows. Though she did not look down, the distance she could sense between herself and the rail, between herself and the water, filled her with fear she had hoped to never feel again. Sharks. Jellyfish. Starvation. _Swimming!_ Two feet out and she simply could not take another step. She trembled fiercely as the wood heaved beneath her and the sea wind tore though her loose hair.

"Barbossa, you lying bastard!"

Elizabeth turned at Will's yell. He was up and lunging at Barbossa, face twisted with rage. "You swore she'd go free!" He was hauled back before he could touch Barbossa but it took three pirates to do the job. Barbossa turned, tall and imposing in his righteous anger. Quiet fell.

"Don't dare impugn me honor, boy! I agreed she'd go free." He smirked, "It was you who failed to specify _when_ or _where_."

The prisoners put up a cry. Barbossa's crew jeered. Jack gave Barbossa a dirty look that he never saw. Barbossa just savored the Turner boy's desperation as Twigg and Khoeler forced a ragged gag between his teeth. Then, flushed with wickedness, Barbossa turned to Elizabeth. "Though it does seem a shame t'lose somethin' so fine, doesn't it?"

All eyes fell on Elizabeth, and she faced them bravely. Barbossa glanced once at the Turner boy and was delighted. The unguarded expression on the youth's face as he looked at Elizabeth was all that a heartless love-sundering pirate could hope for.

He stepped to the base of the plank, smiled at Elizabeth. "So I'll be havin' that dress back before y'go."

They all laughed at her wide eyes, and then went intently quiet as she clenched her jaw and unlaced the gown with furious, shaking fingers.

Jack took this moment to address Khoeler, whose face was an awfully convenient inch or two from his. "I've always liked you." Khoeler just grunted like an angry gorilla and shoved his face forward; Jack was forced to lean back to maintain the two inches.

Whistles and hooting filled the air when Elizabeth pulled the dress completely off, revealing her ankle-length under-gown. Skin burning, she crumpled the dress and savagely threw it to Barbossa's open hands. "Goes with your black heart!"

He grinned then turned away, pressing the material to his cheek. "Mmm, it's still warm." He tossed it to his men and they tore it to pieces.

"Off you go!" Pintel cried.

There would be no rescue this time. Elizabeth suddenly saw herself taking the medallion from a senseless boy's form and wondered if her life was flashing before her eyes, but it couldn't be because the vision never went beyond her taking Will Turner's only precious possession. The nightmare that had come of it was vivid enough. And it was all her fault.

She turned.

Jacoby had his arms; he could hardly keep his face up for Grapple's pulling on the gag, but his frantic eyes met hers. He was trying to shake his head as if he couldn't believe what was happening.

"Too long!" The bosun's voice boomed. His boot came down on the plank and it jerked beneath her bare feet. She teetered, then tumbled out of sight with a shriek, arms flailing. The splash she made could not be heard over the crew's cheers. As she struggled to swim toward land, grateful that Hattie's brother had been kind enough to secretly teach her, Will sagged against his howling captors, devastated.

The noise faded expectantly and Barbossa turned…

Turned to Jack, who still chuckling sourly with everybody else. His captors shoved him at the plank but he reeled away, lips pursed, eyes huge, and came face to face with Barbossa.

"I really had rather hoped we were past all this," Jack managed.

"Jack..." Barbossa put companionable arm around Jack's shoulders and looked him earnestly in the eyes, "Jack. Did ya not notice? That be the same island–" he nodded to the lump of land "–we made you governor of on our last little trip."

Jack glanced over. When his eyes met Barbossa's again, they were no longer brown but a miserable black. "I did notice."

"Perhaps you'll be able to conjure up another miraculous escape," said Barbossa, "but I doubt it." He pulled away and unsheathed his sword, pointed it with relish at his cowering archenemy. "Off you go."

Over the pirate crews' agreement, Jack mumbled, "Last time, you left me a pistol with one shot."

Barbossa started and lowered his blade. "By the powers, you're right! Where be Jack's pistol? Bring it forward." With the air of a British officer he rested his sword's tip on the deck and turned to take Jack's effects from a short, half-blind pirate.

Jack glanced down. Elizabeth was flailing off. "Seeing as there's two of us, a gentleman would give us a pair of pistols."

"It'll be one pistol, as before," Barbossa said. "You can be the gentleman and shoot the lady and starve to death yourself." And with a leer, he tossed Jack's effects over the rail.

Jack grimaced downward then dove into the turquoise water before he could hear them heckling him. He swam like obsessed man to the pearly sea floor, and snatched his effects from a knobby boulder.

Clutching them, he curled and pushed off the stone, straining for the sun.

**Thanks for reading!**


	26. Marooned

**A/N:** Thank you so much to lady angst, Manwathiel, Starling Rising, queenankhesenamun, and SwordMasterZ for your lovely, sweet reviews! You are wonderful.

A huge thank you to jedipati!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney.

* * *

_This can't be happening. We can't be here, again_.

Panting, Jack slogged forward until the wavelets crested below his knees. Then he turned as if the world rested on his shoulders. Elizabeth, standing farther up the beach, turned as well. They squinted out to sea.

The _Black_ _Pearl_ was limping off, taking Will, the _Interceptor_'s crew, and the mists with her.

"That's the second time I've had to watch that man sail away with my ship," Jack said, face twisted.

Elizabeth's tore her dry eyes from the _Pearl_. Listless, she turned and walked down the snowy beach, leaving a wobbling trail.

Jack glanced between her and the _Pearl_.

_Both're leaving us an'we're alone again. P'raps we should just use that pistol now._

"For the seventieth time shut it, y'whiny piece of squid," Jack muttered. "This ain't the first, second, third, fourth, or fifth time your life's fallen to pieces, or that Secret Agendas've been pulverized 'neath Barbossa's booties. This's happened before. You know the drill."

_I hate the drill_.

"It's better'n trying to shoot yerself when your powder's wet, y'imbecile."

He dragged himself up into the dry, pliant sand and limply picked up two snakelike pieces of driftwood.

_Oh how I hate the drill_.

"An'yet the devil won't let y'get away wiffout doing it."

He shoved the tips of the sticks into the sand and plopped down beside them. One boot off…_gush_. He wiggled his bare toes in the air, feeling them dry. He was so glad he had foresworn soggy hose at the age of, of, youngerness.

Water removed, and now to dry. Jack placed the boot upside down on the first stick, where it dismally began to drip. Boot number two, similarly the same. Two dripping boots. Icky and Sticky. Eugene and Walter. Scarlett and Giselle.

Sword wiped dry–_OW_–reflects the sun so very well. Compass, shaken dry. Still points straight out to sea, at the dot that is the _Pearl_. Wait. It's turning, back toward that meadow over there…

Ah, yes. _That_ meadow.

But first, the pistol, the focus of every vengeful desire, carrying the bullet that could give him back his soul. Except, whom did he want to kill now? He'd always want to kill Barbossa, but the fanatic had become such stiff competition, he wasn't sure. If only Barbossa had given him two pistols!

But every centimeter of this pistol had to be inspected. And it had a lot of centimeters to it, for such a small item. Soon his eyes would be crossing and his mind mercifully engrossed.

It was when this had come to pass that Elizabeth crunched up and stopped right in front of him. He blinked his eyes straight and looked up.

She was staring ahead, at her own footprints. Jack decided his bullet looked better than the young woman who had just circled the entire island in ten minutes. "It's really not all that big, is it?"

She faced him. "If you're going to shoot me, please do so without delay."

He rested his arms on his knees and looked up at her. "Is there a problem between us, Miss Swann?"

The stringy hair blowing across her face did not diminish her glare. "You were going to tell Barbossa about Will in exchange for a ship."

"We could use a ship," he retorted crossly. "The fact is, I was going to _not_ tell Barbossa about bloody Will in exchange for a ship, because as long as he didn't now about bloody Will, I had something to barter with." He paused, watching the realization enter Elizabeth's eyes. "Which now, no one has, thanks to bloody, _stupid_ Will."

"Oh."

Jack stood, shoving his pistol into his sash. "_Oh_."

"He still risked his life to save ours."

"Ha!" Jack barked and marched away.

A gorgeous wavelet enveloped Elizabeth's feet as she pursued him. "So, we have to do something to save him!"

Jack wheeled and she almost crashed into him. "Off you go, then!" He shooed at her. "Let me know how that turns out." He turned his back on her and stalked into the meadow, wondering how much more youthful, emotional urging he could take without getting violent.

"But you were marooned on this island before, weren't you?" She was right behind him. "We can escape the same way you did then!"

Again he wheeled; again she almost crashed into him. "To what point and purpose, young missy? The _Black Pearl_ is gone. Unless you have a rudder and a lot of sails hidden in that bodice," he looked her over and she glared, "unlikely…young Mr. Turner will be dead before you can reach him."

He turned, lurched to a tree, and knocked on it.

"But you're Captain Jack Sparrow!" Her face popped out from behind the trunk. A black word rose to his mind but he focused on taking giant steps through the wispy grass. "You vanished from under the eyes of seven agents of the East India Company. You sacked Nassau Port without even firing a shot!"

Unaware of the unnatural way the ground gave under his bare feet she scrambled around him as he jumped crazily up and down. "Are you the pirate I've read about or not?" She boldly stepped close. "How did you escape last time?"

Jack was torn and he could hardly bear it. He couldn't believe his own reasoning, and yet he fell prey to it, because he knew the significance of his reputation and knew telling her the truth would lessen the chances of her ever feeling..._romantically_ toward him. Not that he cared, of course, but she _was_ beautiful and she _was_ here alone, with him. Him and her, her and him, and no chances of getting off to someone a bit more willing. He wasn't a eunuch, after all.

But that reminded him that yams almighty was she the most snarly, prickly, exasperating female he'd met in a long time and yes, he would forgo having her flutter her eyelashes at him if only to get her to bleeding leave him alone. However, this did not make the telling any easier.

He shoved her lightly back and gestured helplessly. "Last time...I was here a grand total of three days, all right?"

She was frowning at him, confused, so he bent over to grasp the wood hidden by the sand.

"Last time…" he pulled the wood up and a square of the ground lifted to reveal a large hole six feet deep. Cool air swirled up and Jack felt minutely better as he stiffly shoved the lid back and descended the neat little stairs. "…the rumrunners used this island as a cache, came by, and I was able to barter passage off." He surveyed the dusty shelves. They should have been groaning under the weight of glittering bottles, but boasted only a few bottles that looked about three hundred years old, thanks to sand and cobwebs. "From the looks a' things, they've been long out of business."

He grabbed two bottles, mouth watering as their contents swirled deliciously. "Probably have your bloody friend Norrington to thank for that." He held one bottle up as he ascended, just in case she might want to take it, but he found her gaping at him with crushed disbelief that made his ego writhe.

"So that's it, then." Her voice trembled. "That's the secret, grand adventure of the infamous Jack Sparrow." She stepped near to him, tearfully furious. "You spent three days, lying on a beach, drinking rum?"

_Just don't look at her_. He shrugged, leaning back. "Welcome to the Caribbean, love." Pushing past her, he marched determinedly for the beach.

When he reached his effects she was in front of him, eyes burning. "So. Is there any truth to the other stories?"

"Truth?" He dropped the bottles in the sand and lifted his left sleeve to reveal his pirate brand and tattoo. Then he bared his forearm and the scar that branched its gruesome, pink-brown length over the inside of it. She stepped back. _Aye, missy, and just you look at this_. He pulled back his loose neckline and she stared wordlessly at the two red bullet scars graced his chest like evil eyes.

"No truth at all," he said bitterly, and sat down. He looked out to sea. "Still have a month or more. Keep a weather eye out for passing ships and our chances are fair." He grabbed the taller of the two bottles, uncorked it, and, dizzy with the pleasure the rum's burn gave him, drank deeply.

"And what about Will?" Elizabeth's voice was mournfully small. "We have to do something."

_Doesn't she ever stop?_ Jack marveled angrily at her for a moment, then lifted a finger. "You're absolutely right." He corked his bottle and tossed to her feet, where it was covered by an incoming wave. He lifted the second, squat bottle, uncorked it, and held it up. "Here's luck to you, Will Turner." He tilted it back to his mouth and gulped.

She slowly picked up her bottle from the soft water, then walked up. She thudded heavily down beside him and uncorked her bottle.

She gazed at it. "Drink up me hearties, yo ho."

"What was that, Elizabeth?"

Grimacing around a mouthful of rum, she snapped, "It's Miss Swann."

Jack turned away, holding up a defensive hand.

She began to look a little guilty. "It's nothing."

Jack just gazed out to the horizon, wiping the side of his nose.

"It's a song I learned as a child," she finally said, "when I actually thought it would be exciting to meet a pirate."

_Ah ha_._ Me hopes may not be as dashed as I thought._ "Let's hear it."

"No."

He shrugged impatiently. "Cam'on, we've got the time. Let's have it."

"No." She looked away, her hair blocking her profile from view. "I'd have to have a lot more to drink."

Jack lifted his bottle then hesitated. "How much more?"

She scowled. He smiled wickedly, and drank deep.

* * *

The drunkest person Elizabeth had seen before Jack Sparrow had been Mr. Farrel, an old soldier who had tried to hold her hand three times in one evening, for no apparent reason. Jack showed her that that Mr. Farrel had merely been strongly inebriated. She herself knew what it was to be slightly inebriated and she was determined not to go beyond this, so as the evening wore on she poured out as much rum as she could when Jack wasn't looking.

Still, the few times he'd almost caught her, giving her choice but to swallow, were having more impact than she'd expected. As the sun set in a wash of pink and orange, they'd both set to building a bonfire and when they been rubbed sticks to light it, every wisp of smoke that rose from Elizabeth's sticks was the most comical thing she had ever seen. Jack's sentiments had matched hers exactly. She howled with him until her middle hurt, tears running from her eyes. And then, when the bonfire finally blazed, she'd felt the need to caper with him and shout with pride.

In that surreal despair that wasn't despair, she let herself forget Elizabeth Swann, Governor's daughter, and realized she could be much more.

Sometimes she thought of Will. Then the tears streaming from her eyes were not ones of mirth; her shouting was no longer proud. But then she'd forget Will in the warm haze in her belly. She had the presence of mind to recognize the rum was numbing her and did it ever feel good. So she became more bold in what she let slosh to the ground. Hearing alcohol's siren call was frightening, for though her world felt shattered, and she had helped create fire and felt like a demigod, it wouldn't help her get off the island. She had to be lucid for her plan to succeed.

Jack didn't seem to care. He just kept drinking, swallow after swallow, his velvety slurred speech becoming more so, his muscled body moving like it was made from the liquid that he drank. He stared at her so often it became not only uncomfortable, but difficult to throw rum away.

One such time she stared back at him, disarmed. He was standing on the other side of the bonfire, oddly still and awkward. Shoulders tight, brow slightly furrowed, black eyes glazed and softly piercing, he looked, just for that moment, like a little boy dreading waking up from a dream he didn't even want.

So she took a sip and, in that deep blue twilight with the flames of their bonfire writhing behind them in the breeze, she taught him her song.

He did not sing very well, the legendary Captain Jack Sparrow. But he only had to hear the whole song once before he had it completely memorized, despite the rum he'd consumed. He jumped to his feet, shouting it to the stars and she watched in amazement, flattered despite herself. Then he grabbed her hand, "Sing it wit' me lass!" and she was again flying around the fire, hollering the words with him, warmed merely by the way another voice was joining hers.

"We're devils, we're black sheep, we're really bad eggs, drink up me hearties, yo ho!"

"Ouch!" Jack yelped as they passed each other and she stepped on his foot. Her high voice led them, wobbling into the chorus. "Yo, ho; Yo, ho, a pirate's life for me!"

Jack stopped and threw his arms wide. "I love this song!" Elizabeth, coming around, locked arms with him and they spun around, around, around, around, laughing raucously.

Then Jack lurched free. "Really–bad eggs! Ooh." He fell on his back. Bemused, Elizabeth watched him sit up until he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down beside him; she giggled.

"When I get the _Pearl_ back, I'm gonna teach it to th'whole crew!" he waved his hands excitedly. "An' we'll sing it all th'time!"

Elizabeth pulled herself up proudly and leaned toward him. "And you will be positively the most fearsome pirate in the Spanish Main!"

Jack's eyes were wild; he swayed back, forward. "Not jus' the Spanish Main, love. The entire ocean. The entire world!

"Wherever we want to go, we go." He gazed over the moonlit waters, his face turning wistful. "That's what a ship is, you know. It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship _needs_." He glanced at Elizabeth, and she smiled. "But what a ship is...what the _Black Pearl_, really is," his voice softened, "is freedom."

His hand, extended toward the water, curled miserably in on itself, and Elizabeth moved closer. "Jack..." she murmured, "it must be really terrible for you to be trapped on this island." She nestled her head near his neck.

"Oh, yes." His voice had gone strangely flat. "But the company is infinitely better than last time, I think..."

Something brushed her back; she turned and saw his dirty fingers curling stealthily around her upper arm. Alarmed yet unable to quite move, she stared at those fingers as he carefully continued, "The scenery has definitely improved–"

"Mr. Sparrow!" She finally moved away, feeling his hand slide over her shoulder blades and off.

"Mm-hmm?" He looked at her, innocently vague.

"I'm not sure I've had enough rum to allow that kind of talk," she said lightly, leaning back.

Jack leaned forward. Then he lifted a finger. "I know 'xactly what y'mean, love." Looking her warmly in the eye, he slowly curled up the tips of his mustache with a fop's solemn grace, and she giggled again, unsure of what she could do other than jump up and run away.

Fleeing became quite enticing when he reached for her again, not to be stopped from sliding a hand behind her neck. She saw his fathomless eyes descend to her mouth and quickly held out her bottle. "To freedom."

His gaze shifted to the glowing amber stuff, and held.

"To the _Black Pearl_." He clumsily clinked his bottle to hers then they both lifted their bottles to their mouths. Elizabeth's rum, however, never passed her lips. She lowered her bottle and watched Jack, disgusted, as he gulped and gulped. And gulped, his hand sliding away from her. He leaned further and further back until he slumped to the sand, where he didn't stir.

That, Elizabeth told herself, is what stone drunk looks like. Then she stuck her bottle in the sand and stared out to sea.

The palm trees hissed; the water shushed; the fire crackled, and Elizabeth trembled as she realized how utterly alone she was. It was like the coldest breeze slowly snaking in a crack; mind numbing, shocking. She rose to her feet in desperation, searching for the lanterns of any ship, but there was only vast blackness. So vast. Heart in her throat, she marched quickly down the beach, determined to circle the island again and search every horizon. The shadowed sand felt cooler as she left the glow of the fire behind, and a shell she hadn't seen cracked beneath her foot.

Thirty paces out she halted, unable to step further into the quiet night. It was too empty, too alien, too frightening. She hastened back to the fire, tried to sit, then stalked around the blaze and wished for the sun so hard she forgot where she was going and almost stumbled over Jack.

In seconds her thoughts turned to recent events and that was when she sank to the sand near the unconscious pirate legend of the Caribbean and cried harder than she ever had in her entire life.

**Thank you for reading!**


	27. Why's the Rum Gone?

**A/N: **Thank you to Starling Rising, meowbooks, and Manwathiel for your time and reviews!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

_He was just glad he'd gotten free of the burning inn with pickles, dirt, doorknocker, and knitting needles intact_. _Yes the authorities were on their way, but he didn't care about them; he really just wanted to get away before the latrine started burning. It was so sad about the crocheted curtains, with their pink flamingoes. Burned, every last one, with the cutting board, that nice one covered in spotty fleece. It was a shame, but he had to move on. He always had to move on. _

_It just smelled so odd now and ye gods what was that confounded light that was growing? Crackers and hair in your eye, he hadn't left in time and now the latrine was burning…wait. That was the sharp scent of alcohol loose on the breeze_.

_And why was a man with iron-soled boots dancing on his poor brain? Oh aye. His good friend Yampi. Yampi always showed up after a good night of drinking, and sometimes, Yampi told him secrets while he pounded his brain to pulp. _

Not now, Yampi, Jack Sparrow regretfully told the little man, and gathered up his salvaged pickles, dirt, doorknocker, and knitting needles just in time for them to melt with the rest of his dream. He opened his eyes.

Above him was a blue, excruciatingly clear sky. There were waves nearby, and smoke rushing over his face. He recognized the roaring behind him from his dream. Yampi continued to pound on his head.

Oh, aye. He was on an island with a decidedly limited number of shading palm trees. The roar meant fire and fire meant burning palm trees, unless, of course, sand could burn. _Which isn't likely, liable, or conceivable._

He rolled over, stood up far too quickly, and stared, forgetting to feel overhung.

Fire engulfed the writhing trees about a huge burning pile of all-too-familiar barrels and bottles. As Jack gaped, Elizabeth darted into view with another barrel, which she tossed among the others, then flinched down as it exploded with a cracking boom.

The boom wrenched him out of his paralysis. "_No_!" He waved his arms and ran unsteadily toward her. "Not good! Stop! What are you doing?" She was retreating from the heat onto the beach and she barely glanced at him as they passed. "You burned all the food, the shade!" He scrambled up behind her. "The rum!"

"Yes, the rum is gone!"

He stared at her honey-streaked brown curls, wondering why he had ever gone to Port Royal, since its citizens clearly were toxic to anyone with creative, less-than-pure ideas: first the fanatic and now this she-devil. Why weren't the shattered pieces of him just blowing away? "Why's th'rum gone?"

That was when Elizabeth Swann tried, for the perhaps third time, to bite his head off. "One," she yapped in his face, "because it is a vile drink that turns even the most respectable men in complete scoundrels!" This she emphasized, and he grimaced. "Two, that signal is over a thousand feet high." She moved closer. "The _entire_ _Royal Navy_ is out looking for me; do you really think there is even the slightest chance they won't see it?"

Jack buried his face in his hands, then lowered them, shaking. "But why's th'rum gone?"

She had the almighty nerve to turn her back to him and sit down. "Just wait, Captain Sparrow. You give it one hour, maybe two, keep a weather eye out, and you will see white sails on that horizon."

Jack pulled out his pistol, then panting, clenched his fist and mentally cursed his single bullet so powerfully his multiple guardian angels probably exploded. He jerkily shoved the weapon back into his sash and, with nothing else to do other than kick her, ran off down the beach.

He didn't get far before his body sent him an urgent walk-or-hurl message so he slowed to an arm-swinging stomp, squawking to himself in a falsetto, "'_Must've been terrible for you to be trapped here, Jack_; _must've been terrible_.' Well, it bloody is now!" he shouted back at the pillar of smoke undulating lazily into the atmosphere.

It was here at the height of his massive rage that he turned ahead and saw the H.M.S _Dauntless_ fully anchored just off the shoals. And there, bobbing over the glittering water, was a packed longboat.

Grimly he muttered, "There'll be no living with her after this."

* * *

An overjoyed, smug Elizabeth was delicately helped onto the deck. A sullen Jack was manhandled over the rail and jostled into a cage of Marines, where he could watch Governor Swann envelope his evil daughter in a hug that smashed some of the curls of his wig. Shocking.

Commodore Norrington added an extra element of sickly sentimentality by standing nearby with a smile on his face. It was almost too much to bear.

"Lizzie," Swann tearfully looked her over, brow wrinkling. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Father. We must–"

"You." Swann's eyes went to Jack, enraged. "How is it, _pirate_, that whenever you and my daughter are in the same place she ends up…ends up…" he gestured to Elizabeth's underclothing as if he could explode.

"Wit' her feminine attire on display?" Jack suggested flatly. "Your Highness I've no idea, but I swear on me poundin' hangover I've never unclothed her wit'out the pure intentions of savin' her life." _That one should twist his britches nicely…_

"Hangover?" Swann exclaimed, angry color blooming on his cheeks.

"Hangover," Jack confirmed innocently.

Swann turned tremulously to Elizabeth. "How long were you alone on the island with this…this drunk rat?"

"_I'm_ the drunk?" Jack was so very offended. "Highness, y'should've seen h–"

Elizabeth gave Jack a fierce look. "We spent one night. I was dressed like this before we were marooned–"

"One night!" Swann's dismay soared to new heights. "And with rum in him I'm sure he never hesitated to take advantage of you, just as before!"

Before? Jack considered. Ah yes. Port Royal. _That doesn't count; we barely touched. Why I saved her I'll never know. Shoulda let her drown._ He didn't say this because if he did, judging from the dispositions of every person around, surely bruises and splints would follow him all the days of his life.

"Father, please!" Again Elizabeth grabbed Swann's arm before he could pronounce a new doom for Jack. "He didn't touch me. Please, listen to me! Will and Jack rescued me an–"

"Yes, we know," he said sourly. "By methods hardly commendable. We are indebted to them both for your life but–"

Elizabeth's eyes started to crackle. "Will has been captured by the pirates, Father. They're taking him to the Isla de Muerta. He…they're…" She swallowed several words back, glancing once at Jack. "He won't survive!"

Governor Swann blanched. "Elizabeth, did those monsters hurt you?"

"That's beside the point!" she cried, then at the look on his face, added, "All they did was cut my hand–" she pulled it back when he tried to grab it "–and it was _Will_ who made sure I cleaned and bound it. Please, Father, we–"

"Elizabeth, there are more important things to be tended to!" She gaped at him. He squared his shoulders, moving away. "As Norrington said before, one good deed hardly negates blatant defiance of the law. Sparrow deserves justice; Port Royal stands unprotected because I had to use my authority to muster every ship to search for you; and you are standing in the middle of the deck in your underclothing!"

"But we've got to save Will!"

"No. You're safe now." He moved wearily past her to stand by the quiet Commodore. "We return to Port Royal, not go gallivanting after pirates!"

"Then we condemn him to death."

Swann looked into his daughter's wildly anguished eyes, and sighed. "The boy's fate is regrettable, but then so was his decision to engage in piracy."

"To save me! To prevent anything from happening to me!"

Jack noticed that Norrington was frowning and fidgeting. _Ah, the complications that ensue when tender sentiments are attached to she-devils_. He felt his Secret Agenda quietly poke its head up as he sauntered rapidly over to the tense trio. "If I may be so bold as to inject my professional opinion, the _Pearl_ was listing to the scuppers after the battle; it's very unlikely she'll be able to make good time." Everyone was looking at him like he was a weevil emerging from a roll, but he rallied on, directing his assault on the Commodore. "Think about it. The _Black Pearl_. The least _real_ pirate threat in the Caribbean, mate. How can you pass that up, right?"

Frigid silence.

"By remembering that I serve others, Mr. Sparrow," Norrington said. "Not only myself." Jack got a good view of his back as he took his insulted self toward the quarterdeck steps.

"Commodore, I beg you, please do this!" Elizabeth shoved between Jack and her father and rushed to the base of the stairs. "For me." She closed her eyes briefly. "As a wedding gift."

Norrington wheeled to stare at her. She met his gaze steadily.

"Elizabeth!" Swann stepped up beside her, shocked. "Are you accepting the Commodore's proposal?"

"I am," she said slowly, to Norrington, who simply stood where he was with a stunned expression.

Jack was delighted. _We've the impetuous, manipulative single female, the enthralled, vulnerable do-gooder, an' the wheezy father what thinks he's getting 'is way. Now all w'need is the court fool. Happy to oblige_. "A wedding. I love weddings!" He shoved lightly off Mullroy, who had surreptitiously crept up with his puckery friend. "Drinks all 'round!"

Everyone looked at him.

He wasn't a weevil in bread any more. He was a slimy worm in the middle of a chocolate silk pie. He shrugged it off and, pitifully cheerful, lifted his hands toward the Commodore. "I know. 'Clap him in irons', right?"

Commodore Norrington began down the steps, noble brow furrowed. "Mr. Sparrow. You will accompany these fine gentlemen to the helm and provide us with a bearing to Isla de Muerta." He looked loftily toward the horizon to avoid the pirate's smugness. "You will then spend the remainder of the voyage contemplating all possible meanings of the phrase 'silent as the grave'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Inescapably clear," Jack replied, his soft voice as insolent as he could make it. He didn't have time for anything else before Murtogg and Mullroy forcefully escorted him up the steps.

Governor Swann crossed their wake. "Commodore, I must question the wisdom of this–"

"With all due respect, Governor," Norrington said sharply, then paused as the older man's chin went up. "Mr. Turner is a subject of the British crown and therefore under my protection." He lowered his eyes, his face a barely maintained mask of determined severity.

Swann considered him for a long moment then nodded. "Rightly so."

Norrington risked a glance up and immediately felt transparent under the Governor's gaze. The wan smile on the older man's lips was further indication of his understanding of the situation.

Swann looked to his daughter. She met his eyes, one hand anxiously grasping the newel post of the stair railing, looking no better than a poor beggar in her filthy white undergown, her long hair tangled and her face smudged.

When Swann finally met Norrington's eyes, it was with a mixture of sadness, resignation, and respect. "Take care of her," he managed, then quickly retreated up the stairs, leaving Norrington alone with his daughter.

The Commodore's reassuring smile faded as he felt Elizabeth's eyes on his profile. He turned toward her. She looked away, then hesitantly glanced at him. He did the only thing he knew: he offered her his arm. "Elizabeth?"

She moved close and slid her hand through the crook of his elbow. As he led her toward the rail he forced himself to speak, because what lay between them could not go untouched. "I'm–concerned that your answer was, perhaps…" he struggled with the ugly words, "less than sincere."

For a moment Elizabeth could only stare at him. This conversation brought every bit of thirst, hunger, exhaustion, grief, and guilt down on her shoulders with a terrific bang. Yet she knew that if she did not pull through this, she would lose more than she could bear.

"I would not give my word lightly," she said, as carefully as she could.

He nodded once, brushing her words aside, "Yes, I understand." He gazed outward and took a deep, deep breath. "But is it so wrong that I should want it given unconditionally?"

"It is not a condition, it is a request." She heard him exhale softly and knew her words were falling excruciatingly short. "Your answer would not change mine."

She believed those words were true for two seconds. Then she doubted.

He was looking at her and she could feel the hope in his gaze like a prickle on her cheek. It made her want to shudder, made her want to crumple down into a tiny pile and cry until she blew away. But a desperate, insane need to preserve both his heart and Will's life placed a slightly smile on her chapped lips and sweet words on her tongue. "You are a…fine man, James."

His Christian name felt alien in her mouth but she smiled up at him. The sun rise in his green eyes. His firm mouth softened, curved, parted, and then he smiled so genuinely her own smile died on the spot and suddenly she was so close to truly breaking down she had to look away.

"Well." His voice was unsteadily rejuvenated. "Very well."

Sobs were climbing up her throat, squeezing it closed. Never in her life had she felt so torn and low. She had had such a good opinion of herself but the truth was _you've been given the soul of the most finicky, discontented, manipulative coquette in the world. _In that moment she cursed her wayward heart and her feelings with such rage her knees went weak. She viciously held her breath until the tears faded for lack of air and motion.

"Excellent," Norrington breathed.

She gave the best smile she could, and it felt like dying.

**Thank you for reading!**


	28. Maneuver

**A/N:** Thank you to lady angst, karen, meowbooks, Manwathiel, and jedipati for your reviews! And thank you to jedipati for betaing.

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

_He'd hardly seen Jack leap over the side. His thoughts were with Elizabeth in the water below, and on the distance between the Pearl and the island. Was her gown dragging her down? Would she be able to swim so far? Would Jack help her?_

_There was a flash of white some ways off, a flash with laboring arms and dark hair. She was swimming for land. He was relieved._

_But what did it matter? How would she end up dying? Why, when every centimeter of him screamed to go to her aid, it made no difference? Would she go mad like Jack? Will was going insane himself._

_Eventually Barbossa tired of watching his victims struggle toward their personal hell, and when he did, his crew did as well. They followed their captain's smirk to Will and a rumble of cruel amusement rose into tattered sails._

_Barbossa approached Will. Gorge rose in Will's throat, riding on a rocky wave of hatred and he looked into those pale blue eyes, straining against his captors._

_"'The best laid plans of mice an' men,' aye, Mr. Turner?" Barbossa glanced over at the tiny dots that were Elizabeth and Jack. "No Turner's ever gotten the best a' anyone. Ye all got too much heat in yer blood. Which," he produced the medallion with a grin, "be lucky fer those a' us who want it."_

_Everyone else chuckled, edging closer. Barbossa pressed the medallion to the tanned skin of Will's chest and it took all of Will's determination not to recoil. "Looks right, don't it boys?"_

_There was a murmur of agreement. Will barely heard it; he was trying to fathom what Barbossa was implying with his comment about Turners. It was the medallion, though, and how cold it felt against his chest, which drew his gaze to Barbossa's again. He felt his insides shrink as the combination of both lifeless medallion and merciless eyes brought home how he could be nothing but a victim now. This man would kill him._

_Abruptly Barbossa snapped the medallion back. "Get these bilge rats into the brig! This one, he gets a cell to hisself."_

_The prisoners were hustled down into a hatch. Will was dragged after. By the time he arrived, the _Interceptor_'s surviving twenty or so crew members was being stuffed into a cell barely six feet by six feet. Even the parrot was in there, flapping its wings and squawking in distress. They wouldn't be able to sit or relieve themselves. Breathing alone would be a miracle._

_When he saw an empty cell across the small room, a new wave of outrage washed over Will. He almost said something but Grapple whipped the gag from his teeth and literally hurled him into the empty cage, slamming him into the wall._

_The pirates taunted him and locked the door. For a full moment, Will could not find the strength to turn from the dripping wall. At least it didn't mock him in his pain._

_When he finally did turn, he twisted his head just in time to catch Grapple's parting leer. He turned back to the wall._

Grumbling jolted Will into awareness. From where he slumped in the back corner of his cell, he could see Pintel and Ragetti come into view and thump down full wood buckets. Griping, they dipped slimy mops into the buckets and began smearing the filth on the floor around.

Will blinked, thought back to his memory, and wondered how he could experience something from twenty-four hours earlier so vividly, without going to sleep. It had to be the heat giving him semi-hallucinations. He hadn't had water or food; his clothing clung to his damp skin, and the air was so thick and foul it slid through his nose and into his lungs like a gross snake.

Will's thoughts returned to Barbossa's words; they wouldn't let him be. Questions always made him restless, so he stiffly rose to his feet and looked across the way. The _Interceptor_'s pirates just as before, faces shiny and strained, eyes glazed as they followed Pintel and Ragetti's useless motions.

Will sighed and began to pace. Suddenly from Mr. Cotton's shoulder, Parrot exclaimed, "Shiver me timbers!"

Gibbs glanced at the bird and his mouth quirked. "Cotton here says you missed a bit." Pintel snarled and hit the bars with his mop, spraying everyone with brown water.

Will leaned on the bars of his cell. "You knew William Turner?"

From beneath his brows Pintel took in their prize's tortured brown eyes. " Ol' Bootstrap Bill? We knew 'im." He glanced at Ragetti, then back. The Turner boy had pressed his face closer to the bars. "Never sat well with Bootstrap, what we did t'Jack Sparrow. The mutiny an' all. 'e said it wasn't right wit' the Code. That's why he sent off a piece a' the treasure t'you, as it were. He said we deserved t'be cursed. An' remain cursed."

"Stupid blighter," Ragetti muttered.

"Good man," Gibbs cut in firmly.

Pintel raised the mop threateningly, and then turned back to Will. "Well, as you can imagine, that didn't sit too well wit' the Captain."

Ragetti chuckled as he sidled up. "That didn't sit too well with the captain atall. Tell 'im what Barbossa did."

"I'm telling the story!" Pintel bellowed, making everyone jump. Ragetti acted properly cowed, and Pintel was satisfied. "So. What the Captain did. He strapped a cannon to Bootstrap's bootstraps."

"Bootstrap's bootstraps," Ragetti echoed gleefully.

"The last we saw of ol' Bill Turner," Pintel said cruelly, "he was sinkin' inta the crushin' black oblivion of Davy Jones' locker." He frowned thoughtfully. "'Course, it was only after that we learned we needed his blood to lift the curse."

"That's what you call ironic," Ragetti said slowly.

Pintel turned angrily, and then his face slowly brightened into a smile of agreement. He nodded, and the two giggled together.

Will was resting his head on his arms, sickened. He did not see how the _Interceptor_'s pirates looked on him with silent compassion.

Thud.

Pintel and Ragetti fell silent and everyone turned to the entrance. Barbossa, flanked by the bosun and Grapple, trapped the lowly swabbers with one of his unpleasant half-smiles. "Bring him." He threw a large key ring at Ragetti's face; the wood-eyed pirate caught it just before it could give him a bruised nose.

* * *

Jack was wondering something.

Turner had finagled everything around so that Swann could be saved. Then Turner traded places with Swann. Now Swann had finagled everything around so Turner could be saved. It followed that Turner and Swann should trade places once again. Did that mean that Jack would be coming here a third time, to save Swann? If his Secret Agenda came through, he would be strongly against the idea, love-struck hearts at stake or no.

I'll just be sure t'complete my business, and if bloody William comes botherin' me to save the she-devil, I'll shoot 'im.

"Keel to starboard!" someone shouted.

Jack suppressed a yawn as the Dauntless slowly turned. The Dauntless was not his kind of ship; it was too fat. Now Jack went still. He listened in the perfect quiet and heard something only he could. The Isla de Muerta was right in front of them. He nodded to one of the lantern-bearing lookouts. "Your commodore can give th'order t'weigh anchor now, if he likes."

The order was given and all lanterns were doused except for the aft ones. In the cold mist, Jack sauntered down the dim blue stairs and paused at the main deck rail to consider his options. Mists slid between the sails above him.

The Commodore could be manipulated because he had no idea what awaited him. Jack basically had control over the British. How he wished he had a diary so he could write this down to rankle British posterity.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a loose cannon. It was bad enough that she was resourceful and conniving and shrewish and rum-intolerant. But she was in love, too.

And, oh yes, she hated Jack Sparrow. She needed some careful handling indeed. It would be excellent if he could just get her completely out of the picture, but that was nigh impossible with her father and fiancé hovering around.

On the other hand, all she wanted was to save the fanatic she loved. She had shown that yesterday with her guiltless manipulation of a poor British officer who loved her and didn't realize she was a weasel with nice hair. Jack had not observed such a priceless scene in a long time.

It might be good to have a loose cannon running around once everything got started, especially since the curse was making everything so much more difficult. She'd be a good distraction to Barbossa and to put it honestly, Jack would be outnumbered and he needed every body he could get.

He just needed to find a way to get her into the caves.

He thought of an idea just as Elizabeth joined him at the rail, trailing a hand as she halted a good five feet away, close enough to be heard but not obvious.

She was dressed in a Marine's uniform, the coat hanging limply off her slender frame. She certainly was not ugly in it, with her wavy hair pulled back and her legs revealed by the breeches, but Jack couldn't find it in him to admire her right now: the masculine clothing only revealed how dangerous she was; how willing to rise above risks.

He watched her slender fingers continue to play nervously over the wood. Then he looked out into the blank dark, hands folded behind his back.

"You didn't tell him about the curse," she finally said.

"I noticed neither did you. For the same reason, I imagine."

She looked down, and then lifted her chin, stretching her neck. It looked like she was trying to wring away tears. "He wouldn't've risked it."

"Could've gotten him drunk," Jack said. She faced him for the first time, her startled eyes stark in her face. He grinned. "Don't get me wrong, love. I admire a person who's willing to do whatever is necessary."

She eyed him archly for a moment. "You're a smart man, Jack."

_That's more like it._

"But I don't entirely trust you."

_T__hat's even more like it._ Jack closed the distance between them, leaning close. "Peas in a pod, darling," he murmured, gesturing between them. She stared up at him and he noticed her eyes were red-rimmed, but her lashes were still lush as before. It was so sad she was being wasted on the fanatic...

Her gaze flicked past his shoulder and she scooted away. Jack turned and almost clipped his nose on Norrington's lapels.

The look Norrington gave him was blistering. He threw Jack's compass to him, hard. "With me, Sparrow."

* * *

Norrington knew this: he could be manipulated because he had no idea what awaited him. The endlessly maddening Jack Sparrow basically had control over the British. He probably was wishing, Norrington thought venomously, that he had a diary so he could write this down to rankle British posterity.

That was why Norrington took the pirate with him when he surveyed the situation, most of his troops in boats behind. He made sure Jack sat behind him.

Upon finding a proper lurking place behind a boulder, Norrington opened his spyglass and directed it toward what seemed to be a huge opening in the rock.

Then he turned it to the _Black Pearl_, which sat silent in the water. His middle tingled with unease. "I don't care for the situation," he announced. "Any attempt to storm the caves could turn out to be an ambush."

Suddenly Jack Sparrow's wrist was resting casually on Norrington's shoulder. "Not if you're the one doing the ambushing. I go in an'convince Barbossa to send his men out in their little boats. You an' your mates return to the Dauntless and blast the bejesus outta them wit' your little cannons, aye? What d'you have to lose?"

"Not anything I'd lament being rid of," Norrington said pointedly, and pushed Jack's wrist off with his spyglass. He turned his attention back to the Pearl, wondering why Elizabeth truly wanted him here, compromising with a dirty scalawag.

"Now," Sparrow continued to prattle, "t'be quite honest wit' you, there's still a slight risk to those aboard the Dauntless, which includes the future Mrs. Commodore."

* * *

"Penny for your thoughts."

_You'd best keep it and spare yourself another headache, Father. Elizabeth sighed as Governor Swann joined her at the forecastle rail. She'd been staring at the island she couldn't see, mind leaping between outright panic and furious, unachievable plans._

She had to get in there before they cut Will's throat.

"A terrible business, this," Swann said, "but some good has come of it, no?"

He was seeing the marriage in her future. She glimpsed it and her heart stung. To respond as her father expected was a task so cosmic she barely tried. Luckily, the scouting party appeared in the glow of the aft lamps. "They're back!"

Norrington came aboard and immediately began to give orders to Gillette. Elizabeth had no trouble hearing. Jack Sparrow was to have his own boat, and would head alone into the caves. The British would stay behind and wait for the pirate to trick the miscreants out of the caves, and then the British would blow them to kingdom come. Elizabeth sighed with relief. This plan would keep the troops safe from the immortals.

Elizabeth thought she saw Jack darting through the crowd. The desire to sneak out with him crashed to her shoulders like a boulder and she tensed, breath quaking. But all of a sudden, Jack was sliding back over the rail, giving the Commodore an exaggerated salute. Marines from below were still ascending the ladder beside his, but he didn't seem to mind. In an instant he was gone.

The 'No!' in Elizabeth's mouth was stillborn. She clattered down the steps, but was forced to halt by a wall of red uniforms: the main deck was packed with Marines. She turned and looked over the rail. It was hard to see anything but moving red uniforms in the mist.

Before tears could close her throat, Jack appeared directly below her. His face, made small by the distance, was turned up toward her. Incredibly, their eyes met. He gestured to a longboat beside his and she realized that he held its rope. Then he pointed aft. Elizabeth frowned, puzzled.

Someone grabbed her arm. "I thought you were going to leap over the side!" Swann exclaimed.

She could only give him a helpless look. His eyes softened. "You may not be able to see this, Elizabeth, but you're beginning to behave so irrationally, you're going to hurt yourself. Please do not make me take measures that would upset you further. This is difficult enough as it is."

"All right," she said slowly. "All right."

He surveyed her. Then a Marine almost brained him with a musket, and that snapped him out of it. "I'm for belowdecks; I need some quiet." She nodded, squeezed his hand, and he urged Marines out of his way. They obeyed and he was soon gone.

Elizabeth woodenly climbed the steps to the forecastle and drooped at the rail, cursing Jack Sparrow for being so cryptic.

Slow steps came up the stairs. Elizabeth looked up. It was Norrington, followed by Gillette. It was not hard to catch his eye. "How is it?" she asked.

"We'll get through this," he said grimly, "but in our own way."

"What?" Elizabeth asked, heart dropping.

He looked out over the deck. "Sixteenth company! To the boats!"

Confused, Elizabeth watched the Marines stream back down the side of the Dauntless and into the boats. More eagerly emerged from the hatchways, bayonets flickering. She was suddenly afraid for every one of them. "But I heard the plan," she said. "It wasn't–"

"Elizabeth, your wonderfully inquiring mind delighted me from the first, but now is not the time!" Norrington gave her a stern glance, and then turned to Gillette. "We'll wait just outside the caves and shoot each rat as he shows his face. There is no way I am going to wait for them to get in range of the Dauntless's guns. Too much risk."

You didn't tell him about the curse. The lives of a hundred men came to rest on Elizabeth's shoulders, and she couldn't breathe. They were all doomed, but to tell them was to condemn Will to death, because Norrington would not attack a foe he couldn't defeat. It simply wasn't smart.

She stood silently, eyes burning, as Norrington finished conferring with Gillette and marched off to join his men. "Be careful," she called, but her voice was so choked, he couldn't have heard her.

And yet he turned, gave her the slightest smile. Then he was gone in a cloud of hurried command. Elizabeth listened to the fading clanking and slapping of oars and then breathed in the silence, wondering how she could get away. She'd swim if she had to. What had Jack been trying to say before?

Then she realized Gillette still stood some feet away. She turned and caught him eyeing her body with that ever-present smirk of his, and in a moment of raw anger, she raised her hand as if to strike him. He quirked a disdainful eyebrow, then made his leisurely way past her and toward the steps. He paused at the top. "Oh, yes. Miss Swann, I'm afraid the Commodore left me to convey a personal order to you."

She wouldn't face him.

"He orders you to his cabin. Where you will stay until all this is over."

"I do not believe you." He began to shrug and speak, but she interrupted him. "Why wouldn't he tell me himself?"

"He knew you'd cause a scene." Gillette leaned on the rail. "He didn't need that extra impediment, on top of everything else."

Her cheeks burned. "If you think that–"

"He's quite in your spell, you see, and your safety is his first priority. He gave me permission to get you bodily into that room by whatever means necessary."

She shrank back, speechless and he smiled. "Don't worry, Miss Swann, it won't be me grappling with you if you choose to resist. It will be young street rats from London who haven't touched a woman in months."

Elizabeth decided to throw all secrecy to the wind. "Please, you don't understand. There's something I didn't tell the Commodore. Neither did Jack. I have to tell–"

"You have lamentable timing. No more feminine chatter, Miss Swann." He moved closer, face set. "Will you go willingly or will you not?"

"Lives hang in the balance. I cannot!"

"Very well." He had the gall to look pleased as he motioned two Marines up the steps. "These men will help you."

Elizabeth backed away from the approaching Marines. Both were young and looked terribly uncomfortable. "Please come with us, Miss," one managed.

"I can't," she warbled. "You don't understand. I can't!"

Her back struck the rail just as the Marines' faces hardened. They lunged; she ducked too slowly. One of her arms was caught and an instant later the second was as well. They pulled her toward the stairs, one on each arm. She dug in her heels, twisting her arms wildly, but she knew she had no chance of escaping. Her feet never even touched the stairs; they held her up and clattered awkwardly down.

They hauled her down the main deck and she saw Gillette waiting near the open doors to the captain's quarters. She knew she had the attention of everyone on deck but she was beyond embarrassment. "No! You can't do this!"

"Sorry, but it's for your own safety!" was the response from her right.

Her eyes met Gillette's as she passed. "I don't care what the Commodore ordered! I have to tell him! The pirates!" Mustering all her strength, she twisted back toward him, legs straining. "They're cursed; they can't be killed!"

Then she was careening into the candlelit quarters, released. She caught her balance and lunged for the doorway, only to halt as Gillette blocked her way, holding the edges of the doors close to his sides. He sneered at her.

"Don't worry, Miss, he's already informed of that! A little mermaid flopped up on deck and told him the whole story." He chuckled and withdrew, swiftly barring the doors behind him.

She threw herself against the panes of warped glass, hitting them with her fists. "It's Jack Sparrow's doing!" When there was no response she pressed her back to the doors and gazed sightlessly over the opulent room, her chest heaving with fury.

* * *

They tied Will's hands behind his back. They fastened the medallion around his neck and then took them to their temple.

The black journey to the caves was one long train of physical abuse and Will had no thought to spare for an escape. He had never been treated so roughly before, not even by Mr. Brown. He was determined to maintain his silence and façade of bravery, but it was hard. He hadn't expected to face death so soon.

He still hadn't come to terms with it when he was grappled into the familiar treasure cavern. It almost made him laugh hysterically. At least it wasn't Elizabeth headed for death this time. He wondered if she was headed to Port Royal, and if she was crying for him, or just being melancholy. There was a difference. Perhaps what had passed between them on the _Interceptor_ had all been a dream…

Oddly, he caught Barbossa smugly tossing a green apple as he strode toward the mountain of loot. Then a pirate called Pintel was shoving his grimy face into Will's. Another emaciated pirate with a wood eye hovered near.

"No reason to fret," Pintel's foul breath filled Will's nose; "just a prick a' d'finger, a few drops a' blood..." Before Will could register this a hand slammed to his shoulder and Twigg's nose came within inches of his cheek.

"No mistakes this time," he snarled. "He's only 'alf Turner. We spill it all!" He savagely shoved Will on, followed by Khoeler, who grunted fiercely at Ragetti as he brushed between the two companions.

"Guess there is reason to fret," Pintel said to Ragetti. Ragetti laughed.

**Thanks for reading!**


	29. Dance of Fate

**A/N:** I am really sorry it's taken so long to update. Thank you to lady angst, Starling Rising, JC, meowbooks, and master of time for your wonderful reviews and patience.

Thanks to jedipati, my wonderful beta!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Barbossa was sick of coming to the Isla de Muerta and surrendering to its mocking labyrinths, but he was finally feeling hope. _One last time. Do what must be done_.

Years of torment and constant panic; the maddeningly hopeless search of the entire Caribbean and all its rotten little isles for eight-hundred and eighty-two medallions scattered on the wind, finally coming to a close. He had been put past his mental endurance so many times; come to the end of his rope again and again, that he had become suspended in a place so unbearable it didn't pay to think about it. Now, seeing the end of his torment, he could already feel his mind reviving, bringing its head up and looking around.

How beautiful the loot looked; he had never truly noticed how much there was. He had more treasure than the richest king did and it meant he could do anything. Doors were opening right and left and he was desperate to believe he could soon enter them.

From where he stood by the chest, he watched the Turner boy, his unwilling savior, being forced up the side of the small mountain. Turner took every chance to trip and to put his weight on unsteady footholds, forcing Twigg and Khoeler to practically carry him up. The medallion swung this way and that over his chest and when his dark eyes flicked up, they burned with angry fear. He knew he was going to die.

Barbossa looked at the knife waiting on its bed of grinning gold skulls. The girl's blood stained its pale edge.

A delectable satisfaction flooded him. _This be where heroics getcha, Bootstrap–yer family brought t'the chopping block. And t'Miss-Whatever-yer-name-might-be…your blood'll mingle wit' yer lover's. Closest thing you'll ever get to a wedding night, I reckon…and it be what you deserve fer your trickery. _

Aha; _that's_ what he would do after the curse was lifted; he'd find the hussy and make sure she knew very clearly how William Turner II had died, and then he'd…

Well, do whatever he felt like. For the first time in ten years.

Slowly, the raucous voices of his crew resolved into a chant. It was stronger this time; they lifted their hands and shook their torches with glee. Twigg and Khoeler shoved Turner's knees right up to the chest then forced him to bend over at the waist. It took both of them to keep him there and he still jerked against their hold, strong jaw set, breath quickening raggedly as the last grains of sand in his hourglass tumbled downward.

Barbossa snatched up the knife and the chanting of his men echoed so powerfully that it seemed the pagan gods chanted with them. He raised both hands high. "Begun by blood!" he exclaimed, letting his eyes roll back. "By blood un-"

_Wait_.

Eyes forward now, he froze.

"Jack!" Turner exclaimed, renewing his struggles. The chanting faded and everyone stared. Captain Jack Sparrow delicately raise his forefingers over his head then gestured outward with them in a salute.

"It's not possible!" Barbossa's voice held more than a little fear.

"Not _probable_," Jack Sparrow corrected carefully, as he came to the edge of the moat.

Turner twisted upright. "Where's Elizabeth?"

Jack halted on a stepping stone and gave a mollifying gesture. "She's _safe_, just like I promised. She's all set to marry Norrington, just like she promised–" he enjoyed Will's dismay " –you get to die for her, just like you promised. So, we're all men of our word, really. Except for Elizabeth who is, in fact, a woman."

"Shut up!" Barbossa finally snarled. "You're next."

The bosun, who had clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder, pulled Jack back. Barbossa angrily motioned to Twigg and Khoeler, who forced Turner over again. The young man clenched his teeth as Barbossa put the blade against his neck.

"You…don't want to be doing that, mate."

Barbossa gave his enemy a murderous glance. "No, I really think I do." He turned to watch the Turner boy's face as he cut his throat.

"Your funeral…" Jack's voice was resigned.

There was no curse word that could do Barbossa's feelings justice. He hesitated, then rolled his eyes and looked to Jack, who stood like a regretful parent, hands folded. "Why don't I want t'be doin' it?"

"Well, because–" Jack slapped the bosun's hand off his shoulder and lurched to the next stone " –because the _HMS Dauntless_, pride of the Royal Navy, is floating just offshore, _waiting_ for you."

A fearful murmur rose as the men exchanged shocked glances. Will, upright again, fixed Jack in a baleful, pleading gaze.

* * *

It was crowded in the longboats. Marines sat shoulder-to-shoulder, muskets upright before them. They bobbed silently, all one hundred of them, in strategic places about the cavern opening. Nothing had come through the fog except moonlight, and in Norrington's longboat, things were particularly tense. Murtogg and Mullroy were lucky enough to be seated behind the sullen Commodore himself.

Murtogg turned his damp face to Mullroy. "What're we doing here?"

Mullroy stared at his friend for a moment. "The pirates," he said in a low, patient voice, "come out, unprepared and unawares. We catch 'em in a crossfire, send 'em down to see Old Hob."

"I _know_ why we're _here_." Murtogg closed his eyes, mouth puckering. "I meant, why aren't we doing what he wants–that Mr. Sparrow said we should do–wit' the cannons and all?"

"Because it was Mr. Sparrow who _said_ it," Norrington snapped disdainfully, shocking the two Marines into wide-eyed silence.

Cautiously Murtogg murmured, "You think he wasn't telling the truth?"

* * *

Jack gazed earnestly at Barbossa. "Just hear me out, mate. You order your men to row out to the _Dauntless_, they do what they do best..." There was an appreciative chuckle from below. Barbossa propped one foot up on the chest and grimly ignored it.

"Robert's your uncle, Fannie's your aunt; there you are with two ships…" Jack's voice softened deliciously, "the makings of you very own fleet. 'Course, you'll take the grandest one as your flagship, and who's to argue? But of the _Pearl_..." He leaned forward, wide eyes intense. "Name _me_ captain. I'll sail under your colors; I'll give you ten percent of me plunder. And you get to introduce yourself as..._Commodore Barbossa_. Savvy?"

"I suppose in exchange, you won't want me t'kill the whelp." Barbossa spat the last word at Will.

"No, no, no, no, no," Jack said easily. "Not at all. By all means, kill the whelp."

Will gaped.

"Just not yet. Wait to lift the curse..." Jack's eyes slid to Will's, "until the opportune moment. For instance…" he grabbed a handful of medallions and stared into Barbossa's eyes, "after you kill Norrington's men. Every–" a medallion fell back into the chest– "last" –_clink_– "one." –_clink_.

The pirates below murmured hungrily as the two captains gazed at each other.

"You've been planning this from the beginning," Will spat suddenly, trying again to break free. "Ever since you learned my name!"

Jack stared at him. "Yeah."

Barbossa removed his foot from the edge of the chest. "I want fifty percent 'a your plunder."

"Fifteen," Jack shot back.

"Forty."

"Twenty-five!"

Barbossa considered.

"I'll buy you the hat," Jack said. "A really big one...Commodore."

Barbossa smiled. "We have an accord." The two shook hands across Will, and then Jack turned, throwing his arms wide. "All hands to the boats!"

He froze under Barbossa's icy gaze. "Apologies." His arms came down and he pressed his hands humbly together. "You give the orders."

Awed by the Jack's spectacular oddness, Barbossa watched him brandish prayerful hands and bow his head. Then Barbossa turned to his men. "Gents. Take a walk."

Laughing in grim anticipation, they filed out of the cavern. Jack turned to Barbossa, brow wrinkled. "Not to the boats?"

Barbossa didn't stoop to answer him.

Pintel and Ragetti were hurrying toward one of the passages after the others, cackling to each other, when a closed white parasol slammed across Pintel's chest, stopping them both. Their grins faded as they saw the one who held the parasol.

The brown, scarred bosun grinned evilly at them, then turned serious, which was even worse.

* * *

The moon was full tonight, a ghoul glaring at the world. Its light turned the sea floor a pale, cold blue, the color of drowned flesh.

The poisonous sand around the Isla de Muerta was untouched by coral or seaweed. Black boulders rough enough to rend flesh at the slightest touch shoved shoulders toward the sky, sheltering the most miserly of sea creatures in their cracks and shadows. Tiny schools of fish avoided the light, grouping in the shadow cast by the floating _Dauntless_, flicking their iridescent bodies in the unchanging twilight.

Unchanging, until tonight.

Not far off, tall white gleams materialized, and there came the faintest crackling. The fish fled in a hundred directions, braving the light to avoid what stalked closer on streaming legs.

The water tried to swallow the crackling of all those exposed bones, but could only flow through their hair and tattered clothing, sliding past their lidless eyeballs and through their jaws and ribs and spines.

The cursed crew of the_ Black Pearl _marched slowly out of the moonlight, gaining muscle and skin as the _Dauntless_' shadow enveloped them. Their expressions never changed, their chests never moved, but water roiled into their noses and filled their frozen lungs. Ready weapons gleamed in their hands; years of built-up blood and dirt washed off by brine.

They were an army from the cracks of Hell come to remind the ignorant mortals that all is never well...

The dance of fate had begun.

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	30. Swords, Hat Feathers, and Cake

**A/N:** We plunge into the craziness! With craziness comes tons of divider-line things, and (again) I hope there's not too many. I never knew writing two duels at once could make such a mess of POV. My poor beta...thank you so much, jedipati.

A HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed! Your time and thoughts mean so much!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

_All he has to do is convince a bunch of unbathed ruffians to paddle out where we can blast them. How long can that possibly take? _

Evidently it took more than fifteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds.

Commodore Norrington snapped his watch closed and tucked it into his waistcoat. He was thankful for his thick wool uniform: this place was practically winter in England.

He took a steadying breath, held it, and let it out. He was waiting just outside the yawning opening in the rock with all his men, waiting, waiting, _waiting_. He'd started cursing Jack Sparrow every few minutes but now he averaged about two curses in the space of sixty seconds. He could feel his men getting further and further on edge, could see it in their stony faces. Something had to happen, and soon.

And then something did. A flash of white emerged from the ink blackness and Norrington's heart leaped. Then it tripped and fell.

This apparition was a single rowboat, not a legion. It carried not pirates, but...ladies?

British rifles were beginning to click in readiness. Norrington turned and found his men practically quivering.

"Hold fire," he said as calmly as he could, then turned back to squint at the mysterious rowboat.

* * *

"Oh, this is just like what the Greeks had done at Troy." Clad in a dull red lady's gown, a lacy cap perched on his unwashed hair, Ragetti grinned into the black fogginess. "Except they was in a horse, instead a' dresses. Wooden horse."

Pintel rolled his eyes and pulled on the oars again. He had been given a gown of the most delicate yellow to wear, trimmed with lace and everything else scratchy or uncomfortable. There was also a matching bonnet, which the bosun had tied under Pintel's chin with cruel flourish.

He was only glad that the bosun had not forced Ragetti and himself into corsets like he had threatened. Each pirate had a white parasols perched on his shoulder to keep the moonlight away. They were even wearing high-heeled shoes and lordy, did they pinch. Pintel could survive it, though, by imagining just what was going on around the _Dauntless_.

* * *

Two white skulls surfaced from the inky water, right where the _Dauntless_' anchor ropes vanished under the waves. Bone hands grasped the anchor ropes and rotting arms pulled the monsters upward. One after another, the pirates emerged from the glossy waves, climbing, leering, killer ants crawling up two strings.

* * *

"Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth turned when she heard her father's call. She glimpsed his wavering form through the warped glass and turned away. _Perfect_.

"I just want you to know, I believe you made a very good decision today," he said. "Couldn't be more proud of you."

Pain and panic and determination made her hands shake as she knotted the last tablecloth to the last bed sheet.

"But, you know," Governor Swann continued, "even a good decision, if made for the wrong reasons, can be a wrong decision."

She opened the balcony doors and stepped into the ominous night. Nobody had thought to lock these doors. Where would she go, down the forty-foot side of the _Dauntless_?

She leaned down to check on the small dory that was tied to the _Dauntless_'s rudder, thanks to Jack Sparrow. Then she tied the tablecloth around the rail and heaved a giant pile of linen over. It unfurled toward the water, a quivering white line.

Before Jack Sparrow, she would not have gone down the forty-foot side of the _Dauntless_. It was his fault. Let them blame him.

This bravado died the instant she put one foot over the rail.

* * *

"Look into that. Report back."

The lower officer nodded obediently and Gillette savored authority. He could be a ship's captain any day, any night, even a cold, mucky one like this.

"Lieutenant." The helmsman stepped up from the background, reminding Gillette of his true rank. Before Gillette could get annoyed, he saw that the helmsman's eyes were squinting off into the darkness. Curious, Gillette peered in the same direction.

The fog had lifted its skirts from the water's surface. Now a small, confused shape, bobbing on the water, caught the moonlight. Observing cleverly that the object was small because of distance, Gillette briskly pulled out his spyglass and, holding it to his eye, extended the tool outward.

This, he did with the proper flourish, though he thought so himself.

It seemed to be a rowboat, with two passengers shielded by parasols. Captives, women, perhaps, sent out by the putrid pirates? Gillette was pleased. If he saved those poor souls, he might be promoted.

"Yoo, hoo!" A call came to Gillette across the water. Satisfied, he nodded. Definitely women.

Water droplets from the air collected on the spyglass lens, so when one of the women waved, her arm warped.

* * *

Death slid aboard the _Dauntless_, emerging from midnight wings to make a surprise appearance on a stage of moonlit planks. Joints popping quietly, all white and stringy, with evilly glowing eyes, it crept closer, closer . . .

A cold slice of moonlight slid across a soldier's throat.

He fell on his face without a sound. Feet of bones and rags slipped past him and continued down the deck. Past a gargling soldier held inches off the deck crept the cracking white feet, a multitude of them, an army of spiders.

* * *

"Elizabeth?" Governor Swann leaned his curly gray head toward the silent, glowing glass windows. "Are you there? Elizabeth–" he stood. "Are you even listening to me?"

He opened one of the doors by its small, icy-damp handle and looked around. Empty.

"Elizabeth?" he entered the room and immediately spotted the gaping balcony doors. He rushed through them and leaned over the narrow balcony rail like a seasick sailor, his eyes following his daughter's makeshift rope. It fluttered all the way down to the empty water.

"Oh," he whispered thickly. "What have you done?"

* * *

"Oooh!"

Pintel ground his teeth at Ragetti's falsetto cry. "Stop that! Already feel like a fool."

"Look nice, though," said Ragetti.

The beginnings of Pintel's sarcastic smile contorted into a thunderous scowl. He released the oars, threw down his parasol and twisted around to bat Ragetti's parasol into the water. He grabbed Ragetti's neck with naked bone fingers, and shook. "_I look nice_?" he howled.

* * *

Gillette nearly dropped his spyglass in shock. Those _things_ were most assuredly, definitely not women; he would swear it by the famous oil lamp in the Dancing Palm Tree Inn at the British harbor of–

The angry monster shoved his partner down and squeezed off a shot that knocked Gillette's hat right off his head.

A cold breeze scented with carrion blew over Gillette's shoulder. He turned and his eyes met the glare of another creature's, a creature that should have been dead. It looked like he imagined his late great-grandfather looked in his grave–

The bone man yelled and charged up onto the deck. He was followed by more demons, a host of them. The British lunged backward as one, putting a railing at their backs. Guns and swords flashed as they tried to overcome their revolted shock and _live_.

This was all terrible, but the British slowly realized something worse.

A pirate stumbled back; his mouth glowing with a bullet shot from mere feet away, howled then righted himself and charged again. Sword thrust after sword thrust into rib cages and at necks were fruitless.

These creatures could not die.

Even in his panic, Gillette felt the blow to his ego: Miss Elizabeth had been right.

Then a monster flipped him headfirst over a railing and he slammed onto the main deck.

* * *

This simply could not get worse.

Governor Swann dragged himself toward the doors of the captain's quarters. The humiliation he was about to suffer, telling that haughty Lieutenant Gillette that he; Governor Swann, could not control his own daughter. It didn't matter that he was one-thousandth of a thought proud of Elizabeth, touched by the way her spirit mirrored her dead mother's.

"Oh, that cursed Sparrow creature," he moaned.

And mostly, curse that horrid Will Turner. That blacksmith boy had _forcibly_ taken Elizabeth's heart for his own possession. Probably added it to his collection, that impertinent wretch.

Vaguely surprised at the brutality of his thoughts about a youth he did half-care for, Governor Swann pulled the neat door open.

A young soldier sprawled to the moonlit deck only feet away. He lay helpless on his belly as a–a–

The monster stabbed the lad repeatedly in the back and a nauseating liquid noise joined the more nauseating stench that filled Swann's delicate nostrils.

The almost-elderly man drew back and slammed the door against a death he knew would find him anyway.

* * *

Will Turner's hands had been asleep, but now they were as dead as two nails.

He remembered making nails in the shop under the eye of Mr. Brown. Nails in general were tiresome, boring things . . .

He lamented his loss of appendage. If he tried to escape, he would fumble all over everything because his blood was tired of shoving itself under his bound wrists to get to his hands. Not to mention the agony there would be when the rope was actually removed.

Would there even be need to remove it? Would he be alive?

His gut ached with hunger and fear and impatience.

Around him, the entire island waited with thick, simple patience. Patiently, it allowed the moonlight to pierce its main cavern in blinding shafts. Patiently, it got colder and colder as night deepened.

Captain Barbossa, Captain Jack Sparrow, Will, and three of Barbossa's minions waited in the main cavern, definitely without the endurance of the island stone. They all quietly avoided the moonlight, feeling useless as they listened to the gentle _lap…lap…lap_ of the dark water.

The medallion was cold on Will's skin. He shifted, rubbing his late hands against his breeches. The hand of his guard tightened about his shoulder, and Will shot the pirate a nasty look. This monster was bald and tattooed, a savage dog.

"Whelp," the pirate goaded softly.

Will turned away to watch Jack Sparrow. Ashore, the wacky pirate had been poking at a pile of gold and silver. Now he hefted a dull, gold figure that was the size of a small barrel.

"I must admit, Jack, I thought I had y' figured." Barbossa sat easily on the front side of the chest-crowned treasure pile. He was only yards from Will, who stood with his guard on a steppingstone in the center of the moat. "But it turns out you're a hard man t' predict."

Jack turned unsteadily. "Me, I'm dishonest. And a dishonest man you can always trust t'be dishonest." He tossed the gold figure aside and it landed with a disturbing crash. "Honestly." Jack slowly approached the moat. "It's the honest ones you want to watch out for because you can never predict when they're going to do something . . ." he stopped behind an older immortal engrossed in stone skipping, "incredibly–" his eyes slid to Will "–_stupid_."

He booted the stone-skipper in the rear, grabbing the immortal's sword as the immortal toppled into the water. Jack threw the sword to Will who turned sideways, put his hands through a forced resurrection, and caught it. Vengefully, Will slammed his back against his savage guard, and then there were two monsters in the water.

The short pirate who loved explosions, named Smoke-beard in Will's mind, was starting to get _very _annoying. First, he refused to die. Second, he was screeching like a cat and trying to slice Will in half with a filthy sword. A _filthy_ sword. Heinous! Will turned and the tip of Smoke-beard sword sliced through his bonds like they were threads. Free, Will turned on Smoke-beard, determined to make him pay for his dirty tricks and his dirty blade. Burning and stinging, Will's waking hands drove him faster, made his blows harder, and Smoke-beard, off-balance on the stepping stones, finally stumbled ashore and fell backward.

* * *

When Jack charged, Barbossa had wondered if he were seeing things, but the burning determination in Jack's eyes dried up his confusion. Now the rival captains dueled like fiends, their pockmarked past fueling every blow and deflection

"Ha, ha!" Jack took advantage of a lull in their rhythm. His sword flashed up and then black fragments of Barbossa's prized hat feather were floating down. Outraged, Barbossa snarled like a lion and Jack's eyes went wide. _Bugger!_

* * *

Will's savage and now-dunked guard chose that time to haul himself ashore and charge his former captive. Now Will was swamped, fending off three cross pirates, one of them with a scraped back and the other two dripping wet. He sent Savage and Stone-Skipper bumbling backward, then whirled to face Smoke-beard and grimaced.

The grotesque immortal was in a shaft of moonlight. His beard, which was somehow still intact, still smoked. "Aaagh!" he yowled. Will rallied and parried Smoke-beard's thrust, then punched his bony jaw as hard as he could. Smoke-beard squawked and retreated. It was all Will could do not to squawk as well as he shook out his smarting knuckles.

* * *

Thirty feet away, Barbossa and Jack danced over black-gray rock with water on one side and a pointy overhang on the other. And treasure; always treasure everywhere, watching them with gold and silver eyes.

Their blades crossed and remained crossed as Barbossa pressed Jack over backward. "You're off the edge of the map, mate," he snarled, his yellow-rimmed irises glowing at Jack's pale face. "Here there be _monsters_!"

* * *

It was not easy, returning to the solid nightmare called the _Black Pearl_. Elizabeth, her stolen boat sidled to that evil hull, found her hands were trembling as she made them grasp the first rung of a wood ladder leading to the rail.

She made herself climb, pressing her belly to the cold, damp wood. Then she was level with the glowing gunports. The snouts of ready cannons flanked her.

"Right." Some chuckles, along with the scent of roast turkey came from the gunport on Elizabeth's right. She went rigid.

"What would you pick to eat first?" the rasping male voice continued. "I think we should decide now. Just so we're ready when the time comes."

Elizabeth cautiously peeked in and found the speaker only feet away. He was a stringy-haired pirate with a tri-cornered hat. He sat across a table from a mountain of a pirate who had glowing green eyes. Their table, hung over the cannon, was heavy with candles, cake, seafood and a turkey. A feast.

Mountain grinned fearsomely and nodded. "I was thinkin' cake."

"I was thinkin' cake, too!" Stringy straightened indignantly.

Mountain snarled and slammed a wicked knife deep into the table's only clear space. Terrified, Elizabeth jerked away and continued to climb as fast as she could.

* * *

Beneath Elizabeth, stringy-haired Mallot drew back. Grapple's green eyes glared. For a tense time, the two pirates didn't move. The cake sat between them.

Then massive Grapple smiled evilly, and pushed the knife's handle toward Mallot. "You cut. _I'll_ choose."

**Thank you for reading! :)**


	31. That's Interesting

**A/N:** I am really sorry that I haven't updated in so long. With school starting, everything's gone crazy, as I'm sure it's gone crazy for anyone else of school-age. I hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for your patience. To meowbooks, lady angst, Belphagor, Manwathiel, and master of time: your reviews were incredibly appreciated!!

Thank you to jedipati for her wonderful beta work!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Elizabeth braced herself and peered across the _Pearl_'s deck.

Dark, eerily lit by torches, it looked abandoned. She pulled herself over the rail, shakily swinging her feet to the planks. She looked about again, but nothing had changed. Unsteadily she started forward.

With terrific crackling of exposed bones, something dropped down in front of her face and screeched. She slammed back against the rail as Barbossa's monkey, hanging from some low rigging, bared its wicked little teeth and screeched again. Catching her wits, she lifted her chin and gave the horrid creature a look that could freeze the sun itself. It fell silent and squeaked, sagging from its rope in disappointment.

Mallot had placed a quarter of the yellow cake onto Grapple's plate. Now he carefully cut a second quarter for himself as Grapple watched. Something slammed onto their cannon, making it ring dully, and Mallot froze.

"What was that?" they both asked. Something outside gave a wheezing noise and they turned.

The Captain's monkey straddled the far end of their cannon barrel, white, ragged, and swaying. Then it swooned and slipped to the side.

It made a splash when it hit the water.

* * *

Elizabeth had just watched the monkey sink out of sight when two round white skulls thrust themselves out of the cannon port below. A gasp escaped her and she saw them start to look up. Heart in her throat, she threw herself into the _Pearl_'s main hatch and rushed down the stairs. She stopped at a landing that split in opposite directions. The pirates' enraged yells came from the left. Elizabeth darted to the right and hid behind a locker and heard the two men run past her and up the stairs. They crackled when the moonlight enveloped them.

Elizabeth rested her forehead against the slimy wood. "When is this going to end?"

Then she squared her jaw and, wondering again if she was running to her death, charged over the landing and off the left side. She scrambled down the rows of cannons, past the pirates' feast, and down another narrow flight of stairs into the cave-like brig. Stopping in the doorway, she looked around wildly and saw two cells. One was empty; the other jammed with familiar, stunned faces that quickly brightened at the sight of her.

"Miss Elizabeth!" exclaimed Gibbs.

* * *

The battle for the _H.M.S Dauntless _raged on. It was not going smashingly for the British –or perhaps it was– who, despite the excellent fight they were putting up, had a permanent disadvantage. The immortal pirates slowly worked through them, approaching victory one slaughtered Marine at a time. The deck was a mess of death.

As their rowboat bumped against the _Dauntless_'s hull, Pintel listened hungrily to the sounds of battle above and waited for Ragetti to climb to a gunport above. The whip-thin pirate slid into the gunport, pulled off his lace cap, and in one massive effort pushed the heavy cannon backward to make room for Pintel.

_Commodore . . .you must hear this and . . .my darling Eliza, may you hear this too, despite the distance . . . between us_.

Edmund, fatally stabbed, sprawled sacrificed on the _Dauntless_' creaking deck. Unable to think anymore, shivering in his soaked red uniform, he squinted at the silver bell above him. It was polished to perfection; beautiful, yet it reflected a warped hell. He heaved himself up, reached for the bell's rope and caught it. Blinded by the pain, he tugged, tugged, tugged, and the bell sang for him, strong and clear. Then a cold point jabbed into his chest with a sick wet noise and then, everything was . . .

Gone.

* * *

The bell's cry flew over the water, straight to the ears of the British who had abandoned it. Commodore Norrington looked to the _Dauntless_, heart pounding. The fog, thin now, could not conceal the flashes of gunfire flickering about the royal battleship's deck.

Everything swayed for a moment in shock and despair, but Norrington was a soldier, and he forced his vision to clear. "Make for the ship!" he bellowed. "Move!"

In seconds every rowboat was slicing rapidly through the waves, rowed by determined sailors and Marines alike. Norrington urged them on. "To the ship! Row, men!"

* * *

A few minutes later, Ragetti and Pintel found they were lighting a cannon. Happily too, because it was one of the British's own. Their cannon roared and bucked in its port, and a cannonball howled through the fog and slammed into the midst the intrepid British rowboats, sending up a terrific spout of brine that fell like rain. Shrieking projectiles from the other cannons followed and then there was no man in the entire British force that was not staring Death in the face.

* * *

Governor Swann had not moved for fifteen minutes and his legs were beginning to cramp. Quivering, he turned and, on his knees, peered out through the lowest pane of rippled yellow glass.

Moonlight flashed confusedly over clothing and weapons. There was the sound of a nasty impact, then Swann jerked back in revulsion as a poor soldier's face slammed to the glass and slid down, skin folding upward.

Then, above, a visage of death peered in at Swann with horrid eyes, dreadlocks hanging forward. Swann gasped in utter horror and shrank down.

The glass pane above him shattered. A bone hand was thrust through, and it grabbed at him. He cried out and scuttled to the side, and as he did, glass shards fell onto him as more glass exploded. Multiple ghoul hands were shoving their way through the glass in a deafening racket, groping for him.

One hand seized his gray wig; he felt it sliding up off his head. This was beyond the pale. Suddenly Governor Weatherby Swann discovered he wasn't so terrified after all. He captured his wig as it came free of his head and a tugging battle ensued. Clutching his wig with both hands, he braced his feet on the door, his back against a cabinet, and strained for all he was worth.

Despite the complete absence of muscle, the bone hand refused to let go. Sweat streaking the sides of his face, Swann twisted and grabbed the nearest weapon-like object he could find and hit that arm as hard as he could. There was a snap and Swann's wig fell into his lap.

Along with the now-unattached hand and forearm.

* * *

Jack Sparrow had forgotten how he had never liked backing up an incline, but now he was remembering.

Furiously parrying Barbossa's blows, he was being forced up a steeply sloped walkway, a coin-spangled wall on his right and stalactites with candelabra framing a view of the moat below on his left.

Beside a hammered gold urn, backlit by moonlight, Jack fumbled and jumped back to avoid being decapitated by Barbossa's wild slashing. Jack recovered and parried once, and then his heel caught on a lip of the cursed island rock. Barbossa kicked Jack as he teetered, and Jack fell on his back with a grunt. He did not try to stand; just panted and stared up at Barbossa with wide eyes.

Barbossa tossed away his own sword and it fell among the dishes and coins. "You can't beat me, Jack."

Jack leaped up and in the same movement stabbed Barbossa's chest with a two-handed thrust.

The repulsive noise of tearing flesh faded as Jack watched Barbossa warily. The evil pirate captain glanced down at what showed of Jack's sword, and then rolled his eyes and sighed.

Then Barbossa wrenched the sword free, flipped it and jammed its cruel point into Jack's midsection, fatally ripping his intestines and spine.

Jack's eyes went wide and a gargled, choked sound came from his open lips. His stricken gaze took in Barbossa's smirk as he weakly stumbled backward, up onto a slanted boulder bathed with moonlight.

The liquid blue light washed over him and suddenly his ribs, festooned with bits of rotted flesh, glared out from beneath his slashed shirt. Tendons and stringy muscle patchily covered his cheekbones and his mustache and braided goatee were filthy and ragged as rat's tails. Barbossa gaped in dismayed disbelief.

Jack held up one of his bone hands and looked at it curiously.

"That's interesting," said Jack.

* * *

Will, perched on a boulder in the moat, clapped a small urn onto Stone-Skipper's head and bashed it with the handle of his sword. Stone-Skipper, probably deaf now, fell into the moat without a sound.

A glow caught Will's eye. He looked up, and saw Jack on a high ledge, a sword projecting harmlessly from his lower ribs, looking like a devil trying to disguise itself with pure light. Quiet fell, and Will could only stare.

* * *

Barbossa could not do much more than Will could as he watched Jack produce a medallion in his left hand.

Jack rolled the medallion deftly over his fingers, and it clinked mockingly against the bones. "Couldn't resist, mate." He smiled at Barbossa and the tendons in his cheek squeaked.

Barbossa hissed. He ducked to seize up his sword and a handful of coins. Jack pulled his own sword out from his body and then flinched back as Barbossa hurled the coins in his face. They picked up where they had left off, hacking and pounding, Jack backing up and Barbossa driving forward with far more frustration than before. Below, Smoke Beard and Will followed suit.

Barbossa relentlessly hounded Jack, who parried confidently, profoundly enjoying Barbossa's fury. Through shafts of moonlight they slipped, transformed then normal, bones then flesh. And all around them, the treasure flashed.

Jack knocked Barbossa's blade aside and brutally elbowed him in the face. The blow sent Barbossa tumbling head over heels down the incline. Back through the pillars of moonlight he rolled, and Jack followed, though at a lenient distance.

Only when Barbossa began to recover did Jack attack. He lunged forward, slicing down at Barbossa with an uncanny speed that would have surely felled any swordsman- except Barbossa, who twisted up with youthful agility and firmly parried Jack's strike.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

They would call it the Ride to Hell. It would live forever in the nightmares of each and every one of the British men trying to get back to the _Dauntless_. Always there was a cannon ball howling death, always a salty spray slapping their arms and heads and laps. Their hearts pounding, their fists clutching useless muskets, desperation in every eye.

The _Dauntless_ remained stubbornly far away.

* * *

The pirates had backed off from the captain's quarters for some reason, perhaps to plan a new assault or to simply avoid losing any more appendages. Or perhaps they knew something about the lone hand and arm that Swann was learning at this very instant. He pressed against a chest of drawers, panting in utter horror.

The hand, white in a square of moonlight, was crawling across the carpet toward him, dragging the stringy wrist and forearm behind.

Swann grabbed his weapon from before and hit the bony terror again and again. It made a sort of high-pitched squeak, bouncing and jerking helplessly. Then it was still, and Swann leaned over it, his gut roiling.

He braced himself and picked up the dead appendage by the elbow joint. It hung upside down before him; the fingers curled like the legs of a late spider. The bone was cold and slimy between his thumb and forefinger and its stench made him wheeze.

One second it was spent, the next it was inches from his face, grabbing as it somehow strained toward him. Unable to make a sound, Swann seized the bone arm with both hands and held it back, teeth gritted. He braced himself, pulled open one of the drawers on his right, then jammed the writhing bones inside and slammed it shut.

His heart bumping along at an incredibly fast rate, he leaned back against the chest of drawers, his gray tresses inches from lit candles. He took a deep, quavering breath. Then the entire chest of oak drawers bucked against him. Gasping, despairing, Governor Swann braced himself against the chest as it rattled insistently.

_I'm too old for this sort of thing!  
_

* * *

Once Will had wondered what it would be like to fight an opponent who could not die or tire. And frankly, he hadn't much savored the thought. Its becoming a reality had not made it any more savory.

He had been fighting two opponents who couldn't die or tire for at least fifteen minutes now and, sweat running over his skin, he was beginning to wonder what he could possibly do to improve his fortune in the long run. Nothing came to mind except the need for concentration, and gratitude to his hands for their finally having gotten over their lassitude. Parrying wildly, he danced between Savage and Smoke-Beard, who were having a delightful time keeping him busy. Moonlight turned them to monsters while glaring in Will's eyes. Yet, fortunately for Will they were in a level ring of sorts, surrounded by treasure broken and narrow paths.

Deflecting a blow from Savage, Will twisted and caught both Smoke-Beard by surprise, striking fiercely as he ducked away from the pirate friends. He escaped just in time; Smoke-Beard tried to skewer him through the side but his blade pierced Savage's exposed vertebrae instead. Savage howled horribly and slashed at Smoke-Beard, who relinquished his sword and ducked. The blade whistled over his head.

It also whistled over Will's head. He was now behind Smoke-Beard, his new shield.

Then Will hopped back to avoid being stabbed by the blade that had just been shoved through Smoke-Beard's spine. Will watched in wonder as the two yelling pirates reeled away from one another, exchanged swords projecting from their ribs.

They definitely disregarded the Ten-Counts-Before-Anger rule, if they had even heard of it.

Will nimbly moved around Jacoby and stood looking back and forth at the seething pirates. They glared and swore at each other, then abruptly looked to Will in unison. He winced and fled as they wrenched their swords free of themselves, their outraged yells following him.

He sprinted the path, which ascended into cold shadow and through a lumpy, narrow arch. Savage ran up the side of the incline and tried to cut him off, but he darted past and scurried down into yet another arena bathed in moonlight.

Arms burning, chest heaving, he raised his blade as his relentless enemies attacked again.

* * *

Jack deflected Barbossa and then spun around the treacherous pirate and into the open. He paused to give his once-friend a shove in the back then ran down a second path. Behind him, Barbossa slammed fully into the rock with an unhappy sound, lurched around and rushed down the path in white-hot pursuit.

Jack's path was like a jungle path, but treasure instead of foliage draped the rocks. Jack knocked over a tall gilt table as he charged past. "Sorry!"

Barbossa could not have heard him; he was bellowing like an elephant.

The handy jungle-treasure path ended abruptly. Jack ran into the high-ceilinged half-room that was presented; it was treasure strewn and a slanted boulder rose from the center. He turned to meet Barbossa's charge with his own. They pounded on each other with the precision of wind-up dolls, _clang_,_ clang_,_ clang_,_ clang_,_ clang_, _clang_, and then Barbossa lost the rhythm and Jack slipped past his guard and slashed at his face. Barbossa tumbled back onto the slanted, glowing stone and panted with nonexistent lungs, propped up on his bony, rag-clad elbows.

He looked at the solid Jack, his skinless face wryly hostile. "So what now, Jack Sparrow? Are we t'be two immortals locked in an epic battle till judgement day and trumpets sound? Hmm?"

Jack's face was lit by the reflected moonlight. "Or you could surrender," his nose wrinkled as he spoke. Then his face went stony and he lifted his blade near his shoulder.

Barbossa was already surging forward. He ducked to freedom under Jack's fierce blow, caught himself, and wheeled to face Jack, who now perched transformed and glaring on the stone Barbossa had just vacated.

Having Jack above him would never do. Barbossa swiped at Jack but he was just beyond the blade's reach. Then Jack launched himself lightly into the air and into shadows, gaining skin and muscles again as he landed boldly in front of Barbossa, the rock wall to his back. Their swords rang and quivered as Barbossa pressed forward. He twirled like dancer inside Jack's guard, finishing his spin with a fist to Jack's jaw. Jack grunted and bumbled back, almost falling, and then fled.

Lion-like, Barbossa threw back his head and let loose a horrendous howl that resounded through the chambers. Jack flew through an arch and down another path, his arms flailing like a duck's wings.

Barbossa followed Jack at a walk, shouting his laughter.

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	32. No Fair!

**A/N:** Thank you a million times to Manwathiel, Belphegor, master of time, and meowbooks for your sweet reviews. You're wonderful!

Thanks to jedipati for betaing this!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney

* * *

Mallot clutched his huge mallet in slender bone fingers. He didn't like this at all.

Grapple didn't either; the hulking skeleton-man was also holding his grapple like his life depended on it.

Down the silent, dark deck of the _Black Pearl_ the two paced, close together. They had searched every rowboat, every corner of the decks and found nothing, and yet, something had been there; they had both seen it. And they could not find it.

Mallot slowed and turned to look back the way they had come, there was nothing. Grapple stepped around him and crept to the rail. Mallot approved and joined him there and the two leaned over and stared at the liquid night below.

From behind them, there came a surreptitious creaking, which quickly escalated to an all-out wooden groan. Grapple and Mallot looked over their shoulders just in time to get an excellent view of the rowboat hull that proceeded to slam them over the rail in dismembered pieces.

* * *

As the shattered monsters splashed into the water alongside their weapons, a great cheer rose from the deck. The _Interceptor_'s crew, led by Gibbs and Elizabeth, emerged from behind tattered midnight sails. Exultant, they all stopped in the middle of the deck; Elizabeth broke away, continuing forward. "All of you, with me!"

Grand in her borrowed British soldier's uniform, honey-streaked hair gleaming and dancing in the moonlight, she marched to the rowboat that had thumped to the deck after causing Mallot's and Grapple's demise. "Will is in that cave!" she grabbed one of the rowboat's ropes, "and we must save him. Ready, and, heave!"

She heaved. The rowboat rocked unimpressively and settled heavily to the planks.

She turned to the group of pirates, stunned. They had not moved, and all looked at her gravely. "Please, I need your help!" she cried. "Come on!"

They were silent. Then Mr. Cotton's parrot coyly lifted a foot in front of its lemon breast and squawked, "Any port in a storm."

Gibbs looked to Cotton, and then turned to Elizabeth with restrained eagerness. "Cotton's right, we've got the _Pearl_." His eyes lovingly roved upward to the sails.

"What about Jack?" Elizabeth demanded. "Are you just going to leave him?"

"Jack owes us a ship," Marty said defiantly.

"And there's the Code to consider," Gibbs added.

"The Code." Elizabeth gaped at them. Some silent seconds passed, and then she exploded. "You're _pirates_! Hang the Code, and hang the rules! They're more like guidelines, anyway."

None of the crew could meet her blazing gaze. Five minutes later she was rowing furiously off alone. Her moonlit face beaded with sweat, she glowered at the _Black Pearl _as it slipped merrily away. "Bloody pirates!"

* * *

Pintel exploded onto the _Dauntless_' deck, stabbing a shocked soldier as he came. Ragetti followed, holding up his skirts. As soon as the pirate duo was in view, two fighting Marines whirled and shot them both in the chest.

The bullets exploded inside the pirates' ribcages, sending them reeling, but they recovered and threw themselves at their British attackers. Ragetti was slightly behind Pintel, so Pintel ripped into the Marines first, mercilessly of course. Ragetti abruptly stopped, stood oblivious to the vicious combat about him, and peered out into the fog.

"Hey," he said.

Pintel felled the second Marine; the lifeless body slumped on top of the first. "What?"

Ragetti pointed at the _Black Pearl_.

Their evil ship was slipping off into the fog. "Is it supposed to be doin' that?"

"They're stealin' our ship!" Pintel shouted hoarsely.

Ragetti looked at his friend in confusion then turned a malevolent stare to the _Pearl_. "Bloody _pirates_!"

* * *

Just below, the noble British rowboats clattered against the hull of the _Dauntless_. Commodore Norrington motioned his men forward. "Boarders, away!"

He led them, gentlemen howling with ungentlemanly bloodlust. They seized anything they could and climbed with weary arms past the hissing, steaming cannons to swarm up onto the deck.

Believing themselves to be finishing up the British, the pirates turned to find more of the cursed, noisy things bravely spawning about the railing. With frustrated impatience, they turned from their straggling enemies and charged the fresh ones.

"Cam' on!" Pintel howled. "Gaaaghh!" he shrieked joining Ragetti. They knocked a Marine senseless against the rail and both stabbed the bloke in the chest.

Norrington and his men fell back at the sight of the otherworldly horde of villains, but rallied to meet them at the last minute. Norrington was faced with an especially spectacular monster with a nightmare face and straggling, filthy-black dreadlocks. Face steely, he shot the pirate; the man lurched back in a clacking of beads, then righted himself and came right back.

Norrington felt a sickening tingle of horror spread through his arms. _Mary, mother of God!_

* * *

Bosun, devoid of his scarred chocolate skin and mountain-muscles, straightened after giving a soldier a fatal stab. He turned and saw a British officer staring at him. The little man held a heavy cleat suspended from the rigging in his white hands.

Gillette smirked at the hulking pirate and shoved the cleat forward. It swung toward the pirate's head for a shattering impact, but the skeleton man dodged it and it whistled off into the rigging.

For an instant, the pirate gazed at Gillette with bemusement. Then he glared and stalked forward. Gillette gulped and edged back.

* * *

Meanwhile, the swinging cleat was coming back. This time it hit something: the back of Ragetti's head. The pirate froze mid-giggle as his wooden eye was knocked out of his head. Disoriented, he wove and then felt his face, poking skinny bone-fingers into his gaping eye socket.

"Me eye!" he wailed. He caught sight of it rolling cheerily along the deck, kicked and bouncing by fighting heroes and villains. With a sob he threw himself after it on all fours.

* * *

Murtogg pulled himself up level with the deck; hand clapped on his hat. Mullroy pulled his heavier bulk up beside Murtogg and they both gaped in panicked dismay at the hell that faced them.

Murtogg nobly grabbed Mullroy's hand. Looking at each other with overwhelmed eyes, they shook, then, banishing all but instinct from their minds, they turned to join the battle, screaming like animals.

* * *

Smoke-Beard's animal shriek grated on Will's ears.

Will turned toward the devilish noise and was faced with Smoke-Beard's smoky grin. _Not again-_ with weary panic he noted the sparking grenade Smoke-Beard held, and then the grenade landed at his feet. He knew he could not be lucky a second time, but he turned and tried to run anyway –BANG!– he was thrown up into the air by the explosion–

Behind him, Stone Skipper and Savage lurched about, overwhelmed. Only Smoke-Beard was unaffected and he watched Will's flight happily.

Will crashed on his belly to the cruel stone, mere inches from the swishing water. He rolled, pulverized treasure raining down around him. Dazed, unable to hear a thing, he rolled onto his back, one aching arm shielding his face. Blinking frantically, he was just able to see Smoke-Beard's round face appear above him.

The pirate shoved his sword in Will's face. "I'm gonna teach you the meaning of pain!"

"You like pain?"

Will heard that clear, high voice from a distance. Then a terrific, ringing clang broke through the cotton in his ears and he saw Smoke-Beard tumble down without a sound.

And there she was.

"Try wearing a corset," Elizabeth snapped after Smoke-Beard, clutching a long golden staff. Then she looked to Will.

Utterly floored, he gaped at her through streaming eyes. Her hair was loose, her face flushed, and she looked ready to bite something. It was then that Will realized a demure English maid would never do. An Amazon element was certainly a must. Drat, he was ruined forever.

Then he realized that she was extending the knobby end of her gilt staff toward him. He grabbed, she pulled, and he painfully came to his feet, stumbling close to her.

She smiled. He smiled.

Then she looked to Jack and Barbossa, who were wading and clanging in the moat below, frothing the moonlit water. Barbossa turned aside. Jack shoved him the rest of the way around and slashed his back. Barbossa threw back his head and howled, then wheeled to face Jack and on they went, lost in their own violent world.

"Whose side is Jack on?" Elizabeth demanded tightly.

Will blinked, then turned from gazing at her to look at the two antagonists. He sighed, shrugging beatifically. "At the moment . . ."

Elizabeth was already moving on, pulling the staff from Will's hands as she marched vengefully toward the recovering trio of pirates who had been trying to kill him.

Stone Skipper was the first to receive punishment. He had finally pulled the gold urn off his head and was laughing in victory. His chortles bunched into a pained cry as Elizabeth hit him over the head with all the force she could muster.

Will heard the high music of the ringing staff and, more impressed with Elizabeth than ever, he rushed up behind her. He grabbed the free-swinging end of the staff as Savage and a revived Smoke-Beard attacked. Elizabeth followed Will's lead and together, they shoved the staff up horizontally before their faces, neatly deflecting both of the charging pirates' blows.

Smoke-Beard and Savage separated to the sides, forcing Will and Elizabeth to separate as well; Will let Elizabeth take the staff. After a few searing seconds of glaring, the pirates charged, Savage heading for defenseless Will as Smoke-Beard warily approached fiery Elizabeth.

Elizabeth looked to Will; Will looked to her, and she heaved the staff at him; he caught it neatly and whirled to Savage, who hesitated in an instant of surprise. Will lunged forward and cracked the bald pirate over the head then reversed the staff's direction and brought it up in a vicious blow to the bent, stunned pirate's jaw that sent him flying, yelling in pain.

Before Savage's frame slammed to the stone Will was at Elizabeth's side, facing the attacking Smoke-Beard, who refused to be cowed and shouted his crazed courage. Will happily hit him over the head and Elizabeth added a sharp kick to his midsection. All that he could do was grunt and stumble back. Then Elizabeth turned to Will and grabbed the staff. They held it between them, eyes meeting in wild agreement. Bracing together, they ran at the disoriented pirate three, the staff extended like a knight's lance.

The lumpy end of the glorious staff rammed through Savage's frame first; the tall monster threw back his head and gave a horrid scream, his intact teeth glowing like square pearls in the moonlight. The staff then nabbed Smoke-Beard crosswise through the ribs, and then broke through Stone-Skipper's spine. Elizabeth and Will jumped back and watched the skewered trio slide back and forth and into each other, trapped by the staff's elaborately carved ends.

Then Will strode up to Smoke-Beard and wrenched a grenade off his bandolier. He tossed it to Elizabeth who lit it in the nearest torch and rushed it back to him. Then Will shrugged hopefully and shoved it into Smoke-Beard's grimy ribcage. The short pirate began immediately to scrabble at his curved ribs as Elizabeth and Will quickly shoved the trapped three out of the moonlight.

Smoke-Beard's fingers tugged frantically at his clothes and skin, but the grenade was buried in his flesh. He looked at Will, who was retreating with Elizabeth. His nostril ring gleamed. "No fair," he whimpered.

When the grenade went, Will was already around the curve of the moat and was sprinting for the chest-crowned treasure mountain, springing over the steppingstones. Elizabeth, yards behind him, reeled at the explosion, a hand up to shield her face.

* * *

Barbossa and Jack were both in shadow and solid; they paused again and, distracted, looked to the smoking place where three pirates had just existed. They saw Elizabeth scrambling after Will, who leaped to the base of the mountain and began to climb.

Jack produced his stolen medallion and slapped his sword on top of the cursed gold. He closed his hand over sword and medallion, and then drew his sword sharply downward, not flinching as the blade brutally sliced his palm. Blood oozed over the Atzec gold, slippery and wet.

Jack struck at Barbossa, forcing the other pirate into a surprised defense that didn't hold. Barbossa stumbled back, leaning over backward and trying to catch his balance.

With exquisite timing, Jack delicately tossed the bloody medallion over Barbossa's nose. Barbossa straightened to see Will grab the medallion from the air. In an instant Barbossa's pistol was free of his sash. Without looking, he aimed to his left. Its muzzle leveled straight at Elizabeth.

She saw this and froze like a doe in her headlong rush for the treasure pile, trying to regain her balance. Barbossa turned toward her. He looked at her frightened face and thought of how pretty it was, a slight smile curving his lips.

A shot cracked the air in two and Elizabeth jumped, stricken eyes fixed on Barbossa, who reeled back as the bullet slammed into his chest.

Barbossa looked at Jack. Jack looked back at Barbossa, smoking pistol steady.

"Ten years y'carry that pistol," Barbossa announced smugly, "an' now you waste yer shot."

"He didn't waste it," Will's hard voice rang out.

Barbossa's smirk fell and he looked over his shoulder, lowering his gun.

Will stood on the mountain's flattened peak, glowing like a spirit. The freshly stained ceremonial dagger was in his right hand, and his other hand hovered over the open Aztec chest.

Will opened his fist, and a double gleam of gold glared, then fell from his slashed palm.

Suffocating silence, like sitting under water, filled the cavern. The entire island seemed to join the breathlessly staring humans and they together watched the twin gold pieces tumble, flashing, grinning, down, down . . . down . . .

_Clink-clink_ –

With that whisper, the silence of the caves lifted, and the deep patience of the stone and water ended, and the Isla de Muerta _breathed_, and the humans breathed with it, sucking in the cool, clear air.

One of them was breathing his second-to-last breath. Now a different silence descended like a blanket. This silence was loose and satisfied anticipation, a silence that Jack Sparrow and the island shared.

Barbossa felt the attention of the cavern and those in it fall on his shoulders, but didn't comprehend it. He was too busy _feeling_. Every inch of his skin tingled painfully, every scratch and old injury spoke. Ah, to smell. To taste. To truly _hear_. What a glorious world he had missed…now it was too late.

He tore his gaze from Jack's dark, steady eyes, and looked down at his rioting body, dropping his sword. Slowly, his arms came up, his hands grasped the opening of his overcoat, and he pulled the two sides apart. There, over his right breast a ruby pool began to grow on his shirt, spurting and flowing warm.

Red, the blood was so bright and red and hot . . .

Barbossa's eyes, covered by a wondering haze, lifted and found Jack's. He huffed softly, feeling his warm life stream over his newly sensitive skin. Remembering, he pulled his apple from his pocket.

He could not lift it to his mouth.

Jack lowered his empty pistol.

"I feel . . ." Barbossa's face was entranced, confused, and his gaze focused inwardly now as his brows tried to come together, " . . . cold."

He fell backward and landed on a treasure pile. And from his limp left hand tumbled the perfect green apple; it rolled mournfully then settled among the treasure like a ball of green jade. None of the living moved.

They gazed at Barbossa who stared, visionless, at the ceiling.

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	33. I'm Sorry, Jack

**A/N**: Thank you so much to hurricane1714, Belphagor, and master of time for your reviews. They are so encouraging! And again, thank you to jedipati for her wonderful beta work.

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney.

* * *

The deck of the _Dauntless_ resembled a display of statues.

Commodore Norrington warily watched his grimacing opponent. The man's bones had disappeared, hidden by muscle and filthy brown skin. His blood-smeared forehead was framed by dreadlocks. Their eyes met and the bewildered pain in the frozen pirate's gaze sent unnerving tingles over Norrington's skin.

The pirate's cheek twitched, and then he keeled right over onto the deck.

Norrington realized his sword was suddenly dripping with blood.

* * *

Governor Swann was well past his endurance when the chest of drawers went still. He had also sweat more than he ever had in thirty years, and his dear wig was itching like mad. He never thought of removing it, however.

Everything outside had gone quiet and Swann's bodily discomforts were silenced by curiosity and hope. Carefully, he turned and pulled open the drawer, the evil limb's prison, and peered down inside.

It didn't look the same.

"Oohh!" He jerked back, nauseated by the gore, and then turned away with a hand over his mouth when the emanating stench reached his nose. "Ohh!" Belly rolling, he slammed the drawer shut. This chest of drawers was going to have to be burned.

* * *

Twigg the pirate had just seen his friend Khoeler collapse in a lifeless heap at the feet of a tall British officer. He glared at the prettily dressed British commodore and others around him, enraged by their dumbstruck faces and the agony that was screaming at him from almost every part of his body. Overwhelmed with confusion, he looked up at the moon.

Naked, it floated in full view, solemnly vengeful in clear midnight sky. The betrayal sank like a slow sword thrust into Twigg's heart and he heard his mates gasp with him.

Twigg tore his eyes from the moon and looked at the British officer. Their eyes met and the officer's face hardened. He lifted his red sword to Twigg's neck. Panting in pain and despair, Twigg let go his sword, and it clattered to the deck, snapping the holy silence in two.

Behind Twigg, another sword clanged to the planks. Another followed, then another, and another, and then all the weapons and the remnants of the pirates' defiance clashed to the deck.

On his knees amidst the quitted weapons, Ragetti lunged forward and caught his wayward eyeball. By some coincidence, he was right behind Pintel, who was being approached by Mullroy and Murtogg.

Quaking, Pintel stared at the vicious Marines; they both looked ready to take on the world. Even their spotless tri-cornered hats with the gold and white trim were still in place.

Murtogg shoved his bayonet toward Pintel's face and Pintel went cross-eyed.

Behind Pintel, Ragetti stood up, shoved his wood eye into its socket, and surveyed the situation. Then he did a double take, gulped, and raised his hands.

"Parley?" Pintel pasted on a hopeful smile, but his face fell when Mullroy gave him a heated glare.

* * *

Commodore Norrington drew back, up. "The ship is ours, gentlemen."

The British erupted into cheers, punching victorious fists into the air and lifting their hats. "Huzzah! Huzzah! _Huzzah_!"

The cheering reached Governor Swann, who peeked out through a broken pane of glass and saw the celebration. His weary face lit up with deep relief. Straightening, he emerged from the captain's quarters and, stepping over the slain soldier, moved into the moonlight.

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" his voice joined theirs as he exchanged an exhilarated glance with a young Marine. Onto the deck he advanced, pausing to shake his finger in the face of a pirate. The scruffy man edged away, and joyously, Swann feigned punching at the other man's face like a boy. Goodness, it was invigorating to win!

* * *

The caverns of the Isla de Muerta were quiet now, idyllic in their own glittering way. But the heady aura of amazement and satisfaction had faded and died when Jack said flatly, "That'll reek after a while" and simply walked away.

Elizabeth, standing where she had almost died, looked up toward Will.

He was white, still bathed in moonlight. Standing like a king-statue over the Aztec chest, he gazed at Barbossa for a long moment. He dropped the dagger. Then slowly, like an old man, he sat down in the shadow of the chest and didn't move. His head lowered almost to his crooked knees.

He had to know. He had to know about her engagement to Norrington…and who knew what other pain he suffered? Not Elizabeth Swann. That thought blinded her with self-hatred, helpless frustration, and tears. She wandered, stopping to stare sightlessly at a pile of treasure glowing in the moonlight.

No matter what she did, she always came back to being Miss Elizabeth Swann. For a few moments she had been a woman fighting for her life, free. Now she was engaged. _Who am I, truly? _She wasn't Miss Swann anymore. _But I have to be_. She could run from it. _From Father? _He loved her. _But he's not the only one…_

When she heard Will's slow footsteps, her heart rose but she didn't turn. _Anything is possible – you, Miss Captive of Undead Pirates, should know. _She turned and watched him come up. His smile was half-hearted. She couldn't muster anything better.

Awkward, they gazed at each other.

_Oh, Will_. The simple affection that rose in her at the sight of him was like sweet honey. Even while she had tears hovering in the base of her throat, he made her forget them simply by standing in silence.

His expression softened. Her cheeks warmed when his eyes fell to her lips and he moved almost imperceptibly closer – or was she leaning toward him? She knew his embrace would be comfort beyond measure, warmth and strength, but-

_Crash!_

Elizabeth jumped and they both turned.

Jack, once more the jaded king of his world, stood twenty yards away in a moonlit alcove. Nonchalantly, he examined a crusted goblet. As they watched he tossed the goblet over his shoulder- _crash!_

Elizabeth stared at the floor. When Will faced her she pressed her lips together bravely, squinting in an attempt at a smile. "We should get back to the _Dauntless_…" She shrugged, and then watched him with intense eyes.

Will met her eyes straight on, miserably determined. "Your fiancé will want to know you're safe."

Elizabeth made herself nod. Then she made a fast retreat as tears washed over her in a wave. She wondered if she'd feel better if this mess was the responsibility of anyone other than herself.

* * *

Jack swaggered up to Will, clanking and clattering. Will gave him a stare.

An elaborate, jewel-studded crown sat crookedly on Jack Sparrow's head, weighed down on one side by a heavy necklace. Multiple chains of milky pearls and gold and silver encircled his neck, loosely angling over his shoulders. He carried a pearl and treasure-filled tray under one arm, and held a delicate gold wine cup in his other hand.

He met Will's gaze, and then they both looked after Elizabeth.

"If you were waiting for the opportune moment," Jack nodded, wrinkling his nose and pointing for emphasis, "_that_ was it."

Will was speechless.

"Now if you'd be so kind," Jack sauntered on, "I'd be much obliged if you'd drop me off at my ship."

* * *

Now they all were having a rotten time.

Will, Jack, and Elizabeth bobbed silently in a rowboat near rocks just outside the caverns' entrance, the night thick and weary around them.

Jack sat in the front of the rowboat, treasure gleaming coldly in his lap, crown still jaunty on his head. He stared dully at the foggy space in the island's natural harbor where the _Black Pearl_ should have been waiting for him. The space was miserably empty.

Behind Jack, Will took up the oars, eyes avoiding Elizabeth, who dismally slumped on her bench in the back.

"I'm sorry, Jack," she managed.

Jack didn't move, didn't blink. "They've done what's right by them. Can't expect more than that."

* * *

There were many things that happened after that. Reunion. Incarceration. Conversation. Commiseration. How the _Dauntless_ found her way from an island that wasn't supposed to exist was a mystery to most, but Jack Sparrow was visited more than once in the brig by Norrington and the navigator.

Once they were well on their way to Port Royal, the biggest thing happened:

Silence.

Eyes did not meet. Words were stilted and used sparingly. Some passengers took odd pains to avoid one another. Footsteps were instinctively softened by everyone down to the powder monkeys. Some understood why and some didn't, but the _Dauntless_ had become a time bomb. Over agonizingly long stretches of water she drifted like a poisoned fruit, pushed by a wind that wasn't fast enough for anyone on board.

It was luck that brought her into Port Royal before the fuse ran out. She rested at the _Interceptor_'s empty dock because it was the only one repaired. Created for a vessel that would never come back, the dock was too small, the gangplanks shaky and under reaching.

A massive crowd filled the shoreline, pushing, craning to see. They cheered Governor Swann and his pale daughter. They shouted for a drooping Will. They applauded Norrington. They booed the limping remnants of the _Black Pearl_'s crew. And they bellowed for Jack Sparrow when he appeared, glancing toward the empty cranes above. The sound was deafening and grew even louder when he managed a tiny salute with one shackled hand.

Then everyone of importance was hustled into carriages. The carriages clattered off, taking the passengers toward their futures.

The crowd dispersed chattily. During the Governor's absence not much had been rebuilt; there hadn't been enough time. But one structure had been tended to with much industry and that was a tall, sturdy gallows in the center of Fort Charles' main courtyard. It was a big courtyard. Good thing, too, because every square foot of standing space would be fought over. Everyone knew whose name was practically carved into the oak scaffold – it was all too _terribly_ exciting.

Indeed, Captain Jack Sparrow swinging from that noose promised to be the spectacle of the decade.

**Thanks for reading! **


	34. The Day that Everyone Remembered

**A/N:** Okay, so this chapter gave my poor beta fits because she couldn't tell whose POV it was. I guess there were too many people involved to write it from one character's perspective. So please read it as third-person. I am sorry I haven't updated in a while! Thank you to Belphagor, master of time, and Manwathiel for your reviews! You're wonderful!

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney!

* * *

One day later, the sun was setting on a deliciously expectant Port Royal. Everything was arranged to the happiness of all! That blacksmith boy–what was his name again?–had been granted clemency; what a generous governor Port Royal had! Of course, the pirates were to be hung, but only after their king. The noose would take Jack Sparrow's life first as was right; he had more style than a bunch of French courtiers could hope to possess and therefore deserved every kindness.

Out of the blood red sunset flew a single bird. Its breast was the same golden color as the setting sun's heart and its wings the pure blue of the fading sky overhead. It fluttered over the seething, smoking, glittering port, fluttering down, down to a dim, snakelike street with pigs rooting sleepily in the gutters. With a graceful swoop, it came to a landing on a sturdy sign. Extending from the side of an old barn, the sign bore the tools of a blacksmith and the letters _J. Brown_.

The brightly colored parrot peered down at the two people who sat on the barn's stoop, a young man and a young woman.

"Do you think you'll ever see Miss Swann again?" the blond girl asked softly.

"I am certain of it," the dark-haired man answered in a defeated voice. "We live in the same town…"

"I know," she sighed.

"Abbey, I've realized something," he said thoughtfully. "I _forgot_. When I saw Eliz-Miss Swann," he swallowed, "I forgot why I came here."

"Forgot what?" she asked, her frown fading into the dusky shadows.

"I came out here to find my father, Abbey, not to turn into a moonstruck calf. I used to feel… I used to know I would do absolutely anything to just see him."

"Do you still?"

"It's hard to tell what I feel right now," he said, "but I think I do. But I've realized, I _do_ have a trade. I can turn my energy toward making enough money, and then search for him out there, on the water."

Abbey half-smiled. "You like the sea now."

He considered her for a moment, and then nodded. "I do."

She looked at her hands. He looked at the ground.

"We'd miss you," she finally said. "Even Mrs. Brown. She can't think well anymore, but she loves you."

"I know." He bowed his head to his knees. "But I also know that Jack is going to be dead by this time tomorrow, and El-Miss Swann will be married a month from now." He looked at her, his mouth a grim, straight line.

Abbey nodded sorrowfully. "You can't stay."

"I can't," he whispered.

She gently nudged his shoulder. "I'll give you another kernel of corn and then the chickens and I will be with you always."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "That would be most appreciated. I think I lost the one you gave me on a ship in Tortuga…dear God…" he trailed off, lifting his head to gaze sightlessly at the sky.

He was completely unaware of Abbey's tear-filled eyes and the way they traced his profile. She gently slid her hand into his and squeezed.

"Good night, Will," she murmured thickly, and quietly rose and walked away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, the parrot on the sign gave a soft squawk and Will leaped to his feet, hand scrabbling at his hip for a sword. When he saw the parrot, he went perfectly still. "Cotton!"

And Fate smiled.

* * *

The day of Jack's hanging dawned perversely bright and blissful. Seagulls gave picturesque cries as they soared over the rectangular arena of death that was Fort Charles. Some green grass grew cheerfully between the cobbles. A sweet breeze stirred the Union Jack.

It also caressed the inky mane of Captain Jack.

He stood alone in the center of the most unpleasant stage in the world, booted feet planted on the treacherous trapdoor that would pull his life out from under him. A sea of upturned faces was the last thing he'd see, or maybe that crooked stone in the wall across the way, who knew?

A rope knotted his wrists, an impressive combination of sailor's knots. The sun was a heavy, hot weight on his shoulders, but not as heavy as the gaze of the audience. A young woman dabbed her eye, how nice. Except the man beside her looked like he wanted to pull the trapdoor lever himself. The washerwoman beside him wasn't any more friendly-looking.

The packed courtyard was hushed. Marines stalked the walls and ringed the perimeter, a giant red sign of British paranoia. Those of high birth were allowed to stand in the shade, under the elevated portico at one end of the courtyard. Several British officers were present, as well as the Governor, his daughter, and Commodore Norrington.

A trio of Marines with drums had set up a deliberate, grave rhythm a while ago. Now a skinny, gray-haired man took his place near the top of the gallows stairs, holding a crisp, open scroll. Over the racket he began to read: "Jack Sparrow. Be it known that you . . ."

The prisoner gave the reader a scathing glance then rolled his eyes and head back. "_Captain_," he murmured, eyes half-closed, "_Captain_ Jack Sparrow."

A man wearing a large, dashing hat wove his way slowly through the observers, the large gray hat feathers billowing over his shoulder-length brown hair. Silent, fluid, the wearer slipped past fixated commoners, unnoticed despite his proud height.

The reader droned on, "…for your willful commission of crimes against the Crown, said crimes being numerous in quantity and sinister in nature…"

The figure halted, seemed to take in the gallows, the guards, and the massive executioner standing by. Then, oddly, the brim of the hat turned toward the rear of the courtyard, where Governor Swann stood with his daughter.

William Turner's eyes were fixed on Elizabeth Swann's stormy countenance for a painful and then torn away.

"The most egregious of these to be cited herewith," the reader continued. "Piracy, smuggling . . ."

Beneath the portico, Miss Swann's jaw was set. "This is wrong," she said tightly.

Her father, standing between her and her future husband, didn't look at her. "Commodore Norrington is bound by the law. As are we _all_."

Miss Swann looked at her future husband, who glanced at his shoes before grimly lifting his face toward the gallows.

The reader and the nightmare continued. "…impersonating an officer of the Spanish Royal Navy, impersonating a cleric of the Church of England . . ."

Jack Sparrow grinned and whispered, "Ah, yeah." He beamed nostalgically at the executioner. The huge man glared back from under his helm, and Jack's expression turned sour before it vanished completely into blankness.

"…sailing under false colors, arson, kidnapping, looting, poaching, brigandage, pilfering, depravity, depredation and general lawlessness."

Mr. Cotton's gold and blue parrot landed on the crosspiece of a banner held aloft by Mullroy. Squawking, it pooped generously on Mullroy's shoulder. Indignant–as Murtogg watched from beside him–Mullroy hissed at the bird, trying to shake it loose. It wobbled up there but held on with its scaly feet. It squawked again, louder.

Will Turner and Jack Sparrow were the only ones who looked up at it.

"…and for these crimes," the reader paused, dramatically. The parrot shouted again, Will wheeled around. "You have been sentenced to be, on this day, hung by the neck until dead."

All eyes turned to Jack Sparrow. He showed absolutely no reaction whatsoever. _Ah, he was simply stupendous!_ More than a few handkerchiefs dabbed at long-lashed eyes.

Elizabeth Swann was going to have to ply her own handkerchief soon, but she was resolved to fight her tears until the end. She took a deep breath to clear her tightening throat. And then William Turner stepped out of the crowd and stood below her.

"May God have mercy on your soul," the reader said in heartfelt tones to Jack Sparrow.

Elizabeth didn't hear him. This was a Will she had never seen. His waistcoat was fine cotton and his cloak long and deep red. His hat sat at the perfect angle on his brow and he had a sword on either hip. He was pale and there was a frightening intensity in his eyes.

Tears rose again and she lifted her gaze away.

"Governor Swann." Will nodded at the older man, who barely acknowledged Will before icily looking over his head.

"Commodore."

Norrington gave Will a polite nod.

"Elizabeth."

Startled, she looked at him again. He met her eyes straight on.

"I should have told you every day from the moment I met you," he said simply. "I love you."

Governor Swann and Commodore Norrington turned astonished gazes on Will, and then Elizabeth.

The sun had risen in her glorious eyes and her mouth formed a smiling O. Color was blooming on her cheeks but delight had already suffused her entire form.

Governor Swann turned away from his daughter's enraptured expression with a sigh of weariness. Norrington made himself turn away also, but his green eyes were dark.

The drums began a quick rat-a-tat and the atmosphere of the courtyard tightened like a spring. The clogs of Fate had started to mesh and turn, unstoppable, and the breeze itself went still.

Will quickly turned away in a whirl of magnificent cloak. The executioner roughly put the thick noose about Jack Sparrow's neck, and the pirate gave him a mildly hurt look. A flash of color caught Elizabeth's eye. She saw a familiar blue-gold parrot fluttering dramatically on a banner. Her wide eyes watched it lunged into the sunlit air.

The entire situation launched into a free fall.

Will plowed through the crowd, shouldering others aside and leaving a disarranged path leading straight for the raised gallows. Norrington's eyes landed on him just as Elizabeth's did.

He frowned and started down the steps. "Marines," he called to his troops softly, and they tensed.

Elizabeth began gasp shallowly. She looked frantically to her father. "I can't breathe," she wheezed, then toppled right over onto her back, trying not to wince when she hit the cobblestones.

The executioner reached for the lever. Jack watched Will.

"Elizabeth!" Her father knelt down beside her and worriedly waved his green-feathered hat over her face. Norrington joined him, his face hard as his troops waited without a leader.

Deep in the crowd, Will wrenched free one of his swords with a ringing that set the people around him to shrieking. Ferociously elbowing aside one scrambling figure after another, he glanced up and saw the executioner's arm tense at the trapdoor's lever.

Jack's eyes were huge and round.

"Move!" Will bellowed, and finally they all parted for him, revealing the gallows yards away.

Elizabeth sat up like a shot and tried to find Will again while her father and fiancé stared at her in surprise.

The executioner pulled the lever. With a grating sound of death the trapdoor swung down, and Jack jerked downward, feeling the rope's cut into his windpipe–

Like a red gale Will burst free of the crowd and hurled his sword. It sang straight under the gallows and speared though the trapdoor just in time to catch Jack's descending boots.

Jack stopped falling, just as the rope was going in for the kill. He tried to look down at the slender strip of metal that was keeping him alive, but then he slipped sideways and had to compensate in a hurry. Teeth clenched, he focused on keeping his trembling boots on the blade's narrow length.

Oblivious to the scene in the courtyard, Governor Swann gazed at his daughter in confusion. "What . . .?"

Norrington was already gone.

Elizabeth met her father's gaze without shame, and realizing, he shut his eyes with a pained moan.

Will sprinted up the gallows steps, followed by the tumultuous cries of the crowd. Between Will and the executioner stood wobbling Jack, and Will rushed to cut the rope waiting to strangle his friend.

The executioner bent and then straightened with a massive, wicked axe in his meaty fist. Will approached Jack; the executioner easily swung his weapon in a deadly arc. Will quickly met the axe with his sword. The executioner drew back and hacked at Will from the other side and again Will parried, but his blade trembled and his arms ached at the impact. Jack half-spun and swayed helplessly between them, his eyes huge.

"Move!"

Commodore Norrington's shout did not have the same effect Will's had had, for the crowd, in a united spirit of helpless worry, seemed content to watch the combat. So he shoved his way brutally through them, a trail of red uniforms following him like baby ducks.

Will heard the Commodore's shout as he met that horrid axe with his blade for a third time. Urgently he spun to the right as the executioner brought his axe around Jack, and the weapons collided viciously. Will had miscalculated in his panic, and his sword twisted right out of his hand.

The executioner howled as he swung his axe in a savage half-circle made to carve Will's head from his shoulders. Defenseless, Will ducked and the axe careened into the gallows' single column. It sliced straight through the tightly looped rope that was holding Jack up and choking, Jack fell out of sight. The rope hissed from the gallows' arm and followed him.

Livid now, Commodore Norrington forced his way past the last few observers–

"Commodore!" One of his troops' voices made him look up.

Will charged across the platform, lowered his shoulder and tackled the executioner, straining with all his strength. The mountain of a man, taken by surprise, flew up over the chain rail and straight for Norrington and his men and the audience around them.

There was a wild flurry of cries and elbows, and then an impact of three hundred pounds. It was more effective than a cannon ball.

Jack Sparrow came to his feet beneath the gallows, lurching and disoriented in the shade. Frowning, he turned to the sword that had saved his life and sliced apart the ropes binding his wrists. Then he darted into the sunlight, pulling the noose off him, the length of rope writhing after him like a snake.

He was faced with an open stretch of courtyard leading to stairs that climbed to shaded colonnade and beyond that, sunlight and possible exit options. Only if he could get past the soldiers beginning to appear underneath those columns-

Will made a spectacular somersault off the gallows and landed some yards away from Jack. The pirate tossed the noose-end of his rope to Will and they were off, running for the steps.

Bayonets flashing, three Marines clattered down the steps and straight into the rope stretched between the escapees. Caught in the chests, they flipped onto their backs in a cloud of sunlit dust. Will and Jack had barely gained the first step when three more Marines appeared from behind a stone column. They tried to somersault over the rope.

It didn't work.

Will and Jack caught their knees and heaved them up so they tumbled to the cobbles, hats lost. Will and Jack were already at the top of the steps. They darted around each other, trading places as two more valiant Marines charged them. Will punched one with both fists and Jack neatly forced the other off-balance by bringing the rope against the Marine's waist. As one, Jack and Will scrambled around their dazed attackers and met on the shady side of the arch, trapping the soldiers on the other side in a circle of rope. Jack and Will wrenched on the rope, slamming the Marines against the rock.

As the Marines slumped down the steps, Will and Jack were running for sunlight. Across the shady way a second row of columns faced them, the last obstacles. They somersaulted past a baffled Marine and rolled smoothly to their feet, turning to put their backs against another column to see what faced them from behind.

Marines were advancing up the stairs and into the shade quickly. Will and Jack punched and shoved away the two nearest, then spun together around to the other side of their arch and into the sunlight. Will barely avoided being skewered; as the man's sword rushed into view, Will grabbed the sword's handle and knocked Marine in the face with it. The sword was relinquished from the Marine's stunned hand.

But now the Marines were pouring through arches on both sides. The grim men spread in a circle about Will, Jack, and the column. Will and Jack spun back-to-back, and Will's sword clinked against the vicious circle of bayonets.

Their turn finished when Will came face-to-face with the thunderous Commodore Norrington, who raised a sword to his neck. Behind Will, Jack twisted awkwardly and blew Will's hat feather away from his face.

Deadly quiet fell.

"I thought we might have to endure some ill-conceived escape attempt," Norrington ground out, "but not from you."

Governor Swann appeared behind Norrington in a breathless rush. Elizabeth wasn't far behind. "On our return to Port Royal, I granted you clemency," Swann said. "And this is how you thank me? By throwing in your lot with _him_? He's a pirate!"

"And a good man," Will retorted, dropping his sword.

Jack smiled smugly at the surrounding Marines and gestured to himself.

"If all I have achieved is the hangman will earn two pairs of boots instead of one, so be it." Will gazed into the Commodore's jade eyes with all the firmness he could muster, surprised when the pain in his heart made it easy. "At least my conscience will be clear."

Norrington scowled. "You forget your place, Turner."

"It's right here," Will stated quietly. "Between you and Jack."

Silence fell as the two men stared each other down.

Suddenly, in a rustle of luxurious fabric, Elizabeth moved past her father and her fiancé. Shaking, she slid her hand into Will's, feeling his calluses rasp against her fingers. She turned bravely and met Norrington's eyes. "As is mine."

"Elizabeth!" Governor Swann's voice was weak as he watched his daughter look up into Will's carefully blank face. "Lower your weapons," he ordered the Marines. "For goodness' sake, put them down!"

The troops obeyed, encouraged by an impatient gesture from Jack.

Commodore Norrington looked back and forth between Elizabeth and Will, struggling for words. "So-this is where you heart truly lies–then."

Her eyes were so beautiful when they were bright with hope. Curls blowing across her cheeks, she inclined her head tensely. "It is."

He gazed at her for an empty second, then blinked rapidly and averted his eyes.

Blood roaring in her ears, Elizabeth struggled to keep her back straight. She moved closer to Will, sliding her hand under his arm. The fingers of his free hand encircled her wrist in a comforting grasp.

Jack, intently observing all of this from over Will's shoulder, saw Mr. Cotton's parrot alight suggestively on the muzzle of a nearby cannon.

"Well!" his voice broke the agonizing spell. He sauntered Elizabeth and Will. "I'm actually feeling rather good about this." He nodded briskly at the couple, and then his eyes fastened onto Governor Swann. "I think we've all arrived at a special place, aye?"

He leaned very close to the flustered man who leaned back, turning aside in dazed disgust. "Spiritually." J ack leaned to the side with him. "Ecumenically..." he grimaced. "Grammatically," he added hopefully, but Swann only winced and refused to face him.

Jack moved on. Intense, he pressed close to the empty-eyed Norrington. "I want you to know that I was rooting for you, mate." He squinted, pointing a finger. "_Know that_."

He turned and began to march away, but stopped. "Elizabeth."

She turned.

"It never would have worked between us, darling," he said heavily, bowing his head. "I'm sorry." Just as quickly he straightened and proceeded, leaving a bemused Elizabeth behind.

Then he halted again and turned back. "Will."

The young man turned narrowed eyes on Jack.

Jack dipped charmingly. "Nice hat."

Will cracked a smile as Jack whirled and bounced up some steps before turning. "Friends!" He twisted and danced back from the Marines who were slowly emerging from the crowd. He stopping a small distance from a low wall that was the only barrier between mankind and the sea, which was a rather long distance below; Elizabeth would know.

He faced them all, with a hand on the bell tower frame beside him.

"This is the day that you will _always_" –he proclaimed, his hand lightly gesturing over them all as he sidled back– "remember as the day that y–"

He hit the wall and flipped straight over it before his audience could react–

They reacted.

There was a mad, yet polite, rush to the ledge; Will pulled Elizabeth up next to the bell tower and Marines crowded around Norrington, and Swann, who had gotten there first.

They all watched Jack Sparrow shrink to a tiny doll that made a white spot in the blue below.

"Idiot," Gillette, Norrington's second-in-command sneered. "He has nowhere to go but back to the noose."

* * *

Jack Sparrow broke from the cool, wet world that seemed to favor him, huffing and sputtering in a decidedly unharmed manner. Gracefully he began to tread water, bobbing in the waves deflected from the cliff.

"Sail, ho!"

The faint cry reached him from high above, murky through his waterlogged ears. Right after, he felt a ghost-tap on the shoulder of his mind, and turned toward it-

Glory. Across the harbor, around the spectacular domed arm of the island, slid the _Black Pearl_.

She had thrown off her mourning raiment and the joy of her freedom spread over the water in glittering sunlight. Her tall masts tickled the sky, holding aloft the brazen Jolly Roger and rich, dark sails. Her bowsprit sliced the waves toward Jack; reached for him like the hand of a long-lost lover, and he smiled and smiled as he swam to meet her.

* * *

Lieutenant Gillette crouched, open air inches from his boots, and watched the tiny Sparrow-arrow shoot toward the nautical vision of beauty that had just revealed itself as an incoming slap to many British faces, including his.

He looked up at the Commodore, who stood rigid beside him, staring out. "What's your plan of action?"

Nothing came but silence. Gillette ground his teeth.

Governor Swann saw Norrington's tightly furrowed face. "Perhaps," he said gently, "on the rare occasion, pursuing the right course demands an act of piracy." He looked at the _Black Pearl_. "Piracy itself…can be the right course?"

Norrington smiled bitterly and nodded. Then his jaw tensed and he spun away. "Mr. Turner!"

Will grimly turned, but Elizabeth's hand restrained him. He looked into her frightened face, and then stepped close.

"I will accept the consequences of my actions," he said softly. When he pulled away and stepped down in front of the Commodore, she reluctantly let him go.

As brown and green eyes met, Norrington pulled free his sword. The blade sang quietly in a voice that Will Turner knew very well. Norrington lifted the blade that Will's hands had made, holding it inches from his brown hair.

Will held his chin high, his hands loose at his sides.

"This is a beautiful sword." Norrington's eyes followed the liquid length of the weapon. "I would expect the man who made it to show the same care and devotion in every aspect of his life."

He looked to Will. Will's gaze was steady with understanding and deep respect. "Thank you."

Commodore Norrington lowered the blade and retreated, stonily descending the steps.

"Commodore!"

Norrington wearily turned toward his second-in-command.

"What about Sparrow?" Gillette demanded.

"Oh, I think we can afford to give him one day's head start." Norrington quirked an eyebrow and then marched away into the shadows. His dejected men filed after him.

Disbelieving, breeze-brushed, and radiant, Will and Elizabeth faced each other.

"This is the path you've chosen, is it." A grave Governor Swann stood some feet away, his hands clasped behind his back.

Elizabeth looked at him, and then looked at Will, who met her eyes warmly.

"After all," Swann added, "he is a blacksmith."

Elizabeth smiled at Will, who had begun to examine the stones about her father's feet. "No."

Her soft statement brought his eyes up. Carefully, she pulled off his grand hat and beamed at his beloved face. "He's a pirate."

They grinned at each other, but their smiles quickly softened and forgotten, Governor Swann turned away in retreat.

Miss Elizabeth Swann and William Turner gazed at each other; hesitated.

And then . . . this _could_ be.

Will slid his hand along Elizabeth's smooth cheek and caught her, drawing her willing lips to his in a deep, thorough kiss that lasted for a long time.

**YAY! Thank you for reading!**


	35. The Beginning

**A/N: **Wow, it's done! 8O I have to give a massive thank you to my beta, jedipati, for being a part of this project! Also, thank you to lady angst, Calathiel of Mirkwood, master of time, Belphegor, and Manwathiel for your reviews! A novelization isn't exactly exciting to most people and I appreciate your time and words more than I can say. YOU ARE WONDERFUL!!

To master of time: You are incredibly sweet. The Will-Elizabeth scene is one of my favorites too. Thank you so, so much.

To Manwathiel: Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story! It means so so sooooo much. You rock!! :D

Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney!

* * *

Jack Sparrow was given royal treatment. A rope was tossed to him; he seized it, and was promptly wrenched out of the water. Up, up, up he soared, a willingly snared fish. Splashing saltwater over all, he dramatically careened amongst the masts, allowing himself to be swiftly lowered to the quarterdeck. He landed with a wonderful thud.

A tad sore in the tailbone but completely oblivious of it, he sat up in the warm sun and squinted sternly through his hair and beads at Mr. Gibbs, who had rushed up to greet him.

"Thought y'were supposed to keep to the Code," Jack said severely.

Gibbs quirked a brow. "We figured they were more actual . . . guidelines."

The mute Mr. Cotton and Marty came up behind Gibbs, firm agreement in their eyes. Then Gibbs offered his captain a sturdy, worn hand, which was eagerly taken. Jack came to his feet and faced his beaming first mate and crew. He thought about how grateful he should be that the pirates who had left him to hang had come back just before he died. He discovered then that he _was_ grateful…somewhere…

Mr. Cotton redeemed the entire crew when he held out Jack's worn hat, his face split into countless smile-seams.

"Thank you." Jack took the hat and pulled it gratefully over his sopping head. Aye, the world was good now.

"Captain Sparrow."

Jack turned toward that woman-voice, and there was Anamaria, leaning calmly against the helm. Her black hair swished in the breeze as she surveyed him for a long, eloquent moment. Then she went to him. From behind, she placed his dark coat over his shoulders. She gazed at the side of his thoughtful face as he fingered the material. "The _Black Pearl_ is yours."

Jack's avid eyes went to the waiting helm. He minced cautiously to it. Slowly, slowly, his fingers circled one sun-warmed knob. Then his eyelids lowered and he stroked the wood with his other hand, the passionate caress bringing silence to the entire deck.

Five highly touching seconds later, his eyes snapped open. Gone was the bedraggled survivor, the man without a home. Now one exceedingly swashbuckling Captain Jack Sparrow was surveying the smiling faces of his crew. His brow furrowed.

"On deck, you scabrous dogs!" he bellowed. "Hands to braces!"

With properly intimidated scuffing and jostling, the crew scattered as Mr. Cotton's parrot echoed, "Hands to braces!"

"Let down and haul to run free!" Jack added, savoring the words. Alone now, he took a tight, intimate grasp of the helm as the briny breeze stirred its damp strands around him and his beloved ship.

"Now." He lifted his gaze and squinted out, far. "Bring me that horizon." He hummed Elizabeth's tune in vague exultance, lifting his north-ignoring compass. When he turned the helm, it creaked with reassuring eagerness; he felt the sea and the wind pull tight about the _Pearl_, bracing to make her fly. "And really bad eggs . . ."

Seagulls drifted sideways on the gusts above, calling down to their wooden water-sister, watching her poise for flight. Indeed, awareness of the reunion between the _Black Pearl_ and her beloved resounded in every wave in every sea. In that moment, an hourglass set by the true king of the sea ran out, and beyond the end of the world, a monster stirred awake with a clarion call that shook the dawn.

But that moment passed. Now, the _Pearl_'s sails awaited Captain Jack's signal to invite the wind–

"Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!"

He snapped his compass closed, the wind hurled itself into the warm canvas, and in that moment, all was satisfied delight.

For all love a happy beginning.


End file.
